


Thicker Than Water

by KouriArashi



Series: The Sum of Its Parts [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Family, Food Porn, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mystery, PTSD, Pack Feels, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Stilinski Family Feels, Wolf Cuddles, hiding the supernatural, matchmaking grandmother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is busy enough with his final semester of high school and his ever-growing pack without his grandparents showing up. He wants to keep them clueless about the supernatural to keep them safe, which won't be easy to do with a new killer stalking the streets of Beacon Hills...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! Hi! New Sum of its Parts installment, delivered fresh to your doorstep! It's got intrigue! Angst! Fluff! Family feels! Way too much about traditional Polish cooking! Stiles' real (as decided by me) name! 
> 
> This is meant to be a somewhat lower-key fic than The Line in the Sand. It's much more "real life" than "supernatural emergencies". There is a mystery going on but it's not the main (or at least not the only) focus of the story. There's a lot of stuff about Isaac and his dad in this fic, even as early as the first chapter, so be warned that it may be somewhat triggery for child-abuse-aftermath.
> 
> Last note - it's really high time I start calling Sheriff Stilinski 'Tom' in the prose, since it's become dramatically clear that JD never plans to reveal his actual first name. I picked Tom way back in The One You Feed; no reason to change it now. With his parents visiting, using his last name becomes even more awkward than it already was.

 

One of the things Stiles knows he’s going to miss most once he’s left home is the ability to make sure his father is eating properly. He supposes that there are some deep-seated psychological issues involved in this that he might want to address some day. Until that day, however, he’s content to wave to Sandy and then march down the hallway of the police station to drop a brown paper bag on his desk. “You forgot this,” he says to his father, who’s leafing through a folder full of papers. “My feelings are hurt.”

Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t even look up. “Do I at least get peanut butter with those awful celery sticks?”

“I’ll have you know that there is no celery in this lunch whatsoever,” Stiles says, smug.

Now he does look up, slow and suspicious. “What _is_ in it?”

“A sandwich. And a bag of chips. Okay, they’re those baked Sun Chips that you hate, but still, they are chips and I feel as though I should get some credit for that.”

Tom considers this from all angles and decides that it’s covered in mouse traps. “So, your grandmother called this morning.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t have to ask which one. His mother’s mother died when she was a little girl, so he only has one grandmother. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” He leans back and away from his desk for a few moments, then slaps the folder shut to shield it from prying eyes before he continues, resuming his semi-relaxed posture. “They’ve bought an RV and are planning a road trip.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” Stiles says, with a note of confusion in his voice, like he’s not exactly sure why they’re having this conversation.

“One of their first stops is going to be to come visit us,” Tom says. After a pause, he adds, “No, we can’t make it to Mexico.”

“Mexi . . .” Stiles stares at him, face blank of expression for a few moments as it sinks in. “Grandma and Grandpa are coming _here_? To Beacon Hills? Home of all that is supernatural and bizarre? They’re coming _here_?”

“Yep. In their RV. To our house. Here. In Beacon Hills.”

For once, Stiles is speechless. His mouth moves soundlessly for a few moments before he blurts out, “ _Why_?!”

“Because we haven’t seen each other in a while, Stiles. Because . . . your hair is longer and my mother cut hers off and they’re getting older, and . . .” Tom waves a hand in despair. “And God has it out for us.”

“Gee, you know what _else_ has changed since the last time they were here?” Stiles asks in exasperation, letting his eyes flare crimson. “I can think of a few things!”

“I don’t think we’ll be telling them about that part, kid.” Tom sits up and starts swatting at Stiles with the file.

“Why don’t we just go visit _them_?” Stiles asks. “You know, you and me and _not_ a pack of werewolves, like we did last time?”

“Because now they live in an RV.”

“Well – ” Stiles sputters. “Why did you tell them it was okay?”

“Stiles, son, explain to me the familial relationship of the people involved in this situation,” Tom says, making a circular motion with his fingers.

“Yes, okay, they’re your parents, but, but you could have come up with some excuse, like, the bubonic plague or constant tectonic shifts or the fact that I still haven’t mastered those weird traditional cabbage rolls that make you gag and I can’t pronounce the name of, or _anything_ other than, ‘sure, come visit the town where things are always trying to kill us’!”

His father holds up a hand and unfolds a finger with each counter-point he makes, mimicking his mother’s accent. “There’s a cure for that now, Tom.” The next finger goes up. “We lived in San Francisco twenty years, we aren’t afraid of earthquakes.” Another finger. “If Przemysław is still having trouble with traditional Polish dishes, he clearly needs help with them.” Last but not least. “Son, are you trying to make excuses? What are you trying to hide? Don’t forget we raised you!”

Stiles chokes and gags and dramatically falls to the floor, knocking over a chair on his way by. “Oh God – powers weakening – Kryptonite has been deployed – alpha down, repeat, alpha down – ”

Sheriff Stilinski stands up, braces his hands on the desk, and leans over it to peer at where Stiles is writhing on the floor. “Does this mean I can use your real first name any time you’re being a pain in the ass and then just drag you around by your shirt?”

“Wow, Dad, rude,” Stiles says, popping back up like a jack-in-the-box. “You don’t dare. Do you know _why_ you don’t dare? Because Przemysław was some famous Polish king. And Lydia is _bound_ to know that. So unless you want a detailed lesson on thirteenth century Polish politics . . .”

“I might be willing to put up with it if I got the joy of calling your bluff.” Tom sits back down and pulls out his sandwich.

Stiles makes a face at him. “Okay, well . . . as long as I have some notice, I’ll figure something out. The pack might just have to do without me for a week or so.”

“I don’t think they’ll have to do without you completely. You _are_ allowed to have friends. And a boyfriend. Which would be the easiest way to explain Derek.”

“Yeah, I . . . hope that won’t be a problem,” Stiles says, wincing. “Anyway, you’re giving the pack _way_ too much credit for being able to act normal. You know what Logan said about us this past autumn? That we sniffed our food before we ate it. Plus we’re all . . . touchy-feely. And I think it’d be easier to just not be around each other than to try to curb that behavior.”

“No, it’s not going to be a problem. Derek, I mean.” His parents might be old-fashioned about some things, but were fairly progressive on most social issues. “Maybe we could practice. I could watch out for things that give you away,” he suggests, knowing that no one will be happy if Stiles has to cut off contact with the pack, even if it’s only for a few days.

“Maybe.” Stiles gives a sigh. “I’ll talk to the others and see what they think.”

“Let me know,” he says. He takes a bite of his sandwich. His mouth stops moving after the third chew.

Stiles shoots to his feet. “Okay! So, I’m gonna go – ”

Sheriff Stilinski points to Stiles with a jabbing finger, and then points down at the chair. The message is clear. Sit, or the real name will make a reappearance. He chews. He swallows. Stiles sits. “Stiles, what in god’s name are you trying to feed me?”

“It’s a sandwich,” Stiles says, slowly and carefully.

“Filled with . . . what is this?” He’s identified the vegetables. Carrots, cucumber, all very par for the course.

“Tofu,” Stiles says brightly. “Roasted tofu. I had some leftover after I was making stir-fry for Mac.”

“Okay.” Tom puts on his reasonable tone. “Why is it in my sandwich and not her sandwich?”

With a smug look on his face, Stiles says, “Tofu has been proven to lower cholesterol _and_ lower the risk of cancer. It’s a great source of calcium and vitamin E – ”

“Not in my case. Do you know why?”

Stiles gives him a suspicious look. “Why?”

“Because,” he says, rising from his chair and heading for the door to the office, “it gives me no choice but to head towards the vending machine and buy a bag of normal chips to have as an alternative lunch.”

“Whoa, whoa, I _put_ chips in your lunch,” Stiles says, hastening to block his way out of the office.

“No. You put those weird baked pieces of cardboard in my lunch.” Tom edges around his son, using his larger body mass to his advantage. “Which I was willing to put up with, with a minimum of complaining, token complaining really, while I was getting real sandwiches.” He squeezes out into the hallway. “Now all bets are off.”

Stiles grabs him by the elbow. “Those _are_ real sandwiches, anything with two pieces of bread and a filling is a sandwich, look it up.”

Tom marches forward, towing Stiles along. “There’s a difference between a dictionary meaning and a colloquial meaning. A real sandwich has meat in it. Or eggs. I would accept eggs.”

“Tofu is a good source of protein, and, and I put avocado on it, you _like_ avocado.”

“I do like avocado,” he acknowledges. “I also like it with turkey, which I know is on the approved meats list.”

Stiles makes a face. “Yeah, but . . . who the fuck else is going to eat all this tofu?”

“Mac?” he asks.

“She’s told me if I put any more tofu on her plate, she’ll riot,” Stiles says. “No chips, Dad, come onnnnnn, I’ll bring you a turkey sandwich or something.”

Tom gives the vending machine a mournful look, like he knew it in a past life. “Let’s go to Jimmy John’s. We can negotiate my sandwich on the way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Sheriff Stilinski arrives home from his shift early, around four PM, wishing that his work for the day was over. Unfortunately, a lot has happened since the ill-fated sandwich, and he’s absolutely sure that the next hour or so is going to be the worst of the day. He takes off his gun and puts it away in the safe before moving on to the living room to find Stiles.

The pack has gotten so large that it’s rare to find them all in one place anywhere except the den. There just isn’t room for them to all crash in the Stilinski living room anymore. That doesn’t stop them from trying occasionally, and today is one of those days. That means there are teenagers everywhere, and it’s loud and chaotic. Isaac, Boyd and Erica are clustered around the television, playing video games. Scott and Allison are sort of watching, but mostly just canoodling on the sofa. Danny and Mac are in a corner with one of their laptops, quibbling over some computer-related thing that Stilinski knows would go over his head. The others are doing their homework, Lydia occasionally reminding everyone that they’re being altogether too loud as she tutors Jake through his chemistry while doing her own calculus. Surprisingly, Stiles is doing his homework as well, while Derek is sitting on the floor with his cheek resting against Stiles’ calf, sketching.

“Hi, Papa Stilinski,” ten different voices chorus, with one “hey Dad” thrown in for good measure.

“Hey, kids,” he says, and smiles, seeing them all crammed into the living room, cheerful and happy. He remembers vividly that only a few years ago, Scott was the only other teenager to ever grace the inside of their home. It’s noisy and messy, but it’s nice. He likes this.

Then he remembers why he’s home early. “Derek, I need to borrow your head rest for a bit.”

Both Stiles and Derek look up. Several of the others look over as well, sensing subtle shifts in Sheriff Stilinski’s scent and heart rate that indicate something is up. Stiles pops up from his chair without waiting for Derek to say anything. “Sure,” he says.

Tom heads out to the back deck with Stiles on his heels, making sure the door is shut behind them. It’s possible that one of the wolves _could_ overhear them, but they’d have to put in effort, and going outside is a tacit request for privacy, so they won’t. He sits down at the patio table and glances up at Stiles. Under normal circumstances, he would ask Stiles to sit down, but generally speaking, Stiles needs to move. Even under the best circumstances, he’s fidgety. “It’s about one of the others,” he says, figuring it’s best to put that out in front. “But given that werewolf packs aren’t the rest of the world, I thought I should talk to you first.”

“Great.” Stiles huffs out a breath. “Just get it over with,” he adds, with a flapping hand gesture.

Sheriff Stilinski nods once. “Isaac’s father was found dead today.”

“Oh, geez.” Stiles bites his lip. “Okay. Uh. Do you have any idea who killed him?”

“As far as we can tell, no one and nothing. He was found collapsed in his living room. No struggle, no violence, no sign of forced entry. Nothing was taken and nothing was out of place. It looks like he probably had a heart attack or something.”

“Well, he was a pretty high-stress guy.” Stiles vigorously rubs both hands over the back of his head. “Okay. The fact that my brain skipped straight to murder probably means . . . that I’ve lived my life. Never mind. Ugh. Poor Isaac.”

“Yeah. Because he still loves his dad. Do you want to be here when I tell him?”

“I think I should be,” Stiles says. He really has no idea how Isaac will react to this news, but he knows that he’ll need comforting, one way or another. “I might not understand Isaac’s relationship with his dad, but . . . I know what it’s like to lose a parent, so . . . I’ll go get him.”

He jogs back inside, and Isaac looks up from the television when Stiles calls his name. He blinks once. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. I was framed.”

“Yes, Derek has framed all of us several times, it’s an art thing,” Stiles says, completely unable to resist the stupid pun. Everyone in the pack groans. “C’mon, my dad doesn’t bite, he’s not the werewolf here.”

Isaac nods and climbs to his feet, handing the game controller off to Boyd. “That’s not making me any less worried,” he says, but follows Stiles anyway. Stiles starts to shut the door into the house behind them, but then changes his mind, leaving it ajar. Isaac won’t notice, and it’ll be easier for everyone if the others ‘overhear’ this conversation, so Isaac won’t have to talk about it.

Sheriff Stilinski looks up as Isaac nervously sinks into the chair across from him. Beacon Hills is a small enough town that it’s not often that he has to break news about the death of a loved one, but it never gets any easier. He knows that the best thing to do is to say it as simply as possible. Complicating things only confuses them. “Isaac,” he says, as Stiles leans against the railing a few feet away, not crowding them. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your father is dead.”

Isaac just stares blankly at the sheriff for a moment, then looks down, his palms rubbing nervously over his thighs. He looks back up. “I’m sorry, what?” He licks his lips a little and then adds hastily, “Not . . . that I didn’t hear you or, uh, or understand, but uh, what?”

“I can’t give you a lot of detail right now,” Tom says gently. “His body was found this morning. He was due at the cemetery and didn’t show, so . . . it looks like he probably had a heart attack or a stroke, there are a lot of possibilities right now, and we’ll know more after the autopsy, which is scheduled for tomorrow morning. But there wasn’t any evidence of foul play, so it was probably natural causes.”

Isaac nods and sniffles, then rubs the knuckles of one hand under his eye and then his nose before nodding again. “Okay.”

“I’ll keep you posted as soon as I hear something,” Tom says, reaching over the table to give Isaac’s shoulder a firm squeeze.

Another nod. “Thanks,” he says, and stands slowly.

Now Stiles is at his elbow. “I know ‘are you okay’ is a stupid question, so, you know . . . is there anything I can do? Anything _you_ want to do? That would help?”

“I don’t know what would help,” Isaac says. “Can we just go . . . go back in? Maybe watch a movie?”

Stiles can tell that Isaac desperately wants to bury himself in the comfort of pack right now. “Sure,” he says, getting a hand on Isaac’s elbow both to comfort and to steady him as they head back inside. He looks over his shoulder at his father and gives him a reassuring, ‘I’ve got this’ nod as they head inside. The rest of the pack is all sitting in some uneasy silence, having heard the basics and not knowing what to say.

Isaac just starts grabbing random people on his way to the sofa so he has people to curl up with. He doesn’t seem to notice or care who. It doesn’t seem like picking out the movie or even watching it are high on his list of priorities either. Stiles goes over to the shelf of DVDs and skims quickly for something stupid and funny with no parental problems. (One wouldn’t think it would be a problem, and yet, Disney movies would be an extremely bad idea right now. The Lion King would be the worst.) “Leave some room for me over there,” he says to the pack, grabbing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Isaac nods and takes up a small space, knees pulled up underneath his chin and arms around his shins. If people squish him in, all the better.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

They all wind up sleeping in a pile in the Stilinski living room, because nobody wants to move once they’ve gotten comfortable. They order Chinese food for dinner. Stiles has discovered that Jake has an amazing talent for organization, and he’s quickly been deemed the pack secretary. Whereas before it would have taken them half an hour to figure out what to order, Jake has everything saved into his phone and can place an order in under two minutes. Stiles is thinking about all the ways this skill might serve them well in the future. It’s a shame, he thinks, that Henry and Rose were so set on turning him into a fighter. He would be an excellent hunter – just not in the way they wanted him to be.

Stiles is glad he managed to get some solid sleep, since it’s probably going to be a long day. Isaac is still obviously upset about his father’s death, and Stiles wants to stay near him as much as possible. That’s a little awkward, since they only share two classes, but he can make an effort. He can try to at least intercept him in the halls between each class just to check on him.

“I’ll be fine,” Isaac tells him.

“Of course you will be,” Stiles says. “See you in fifty-two minutes.”

Isaac rolls his eyes a little but doesn’t protest, and even waits outside the class afterwards so Stiles can catch up with him. Their next class is together, and then he heads off to French while Stiles goes to his history class. Allison and Boyd can keep him company there.

He has to stop at his locker to grab what he needs for calculus, but he still finds Isaac standing outside the French classroom, chatting with Allison. They have their next class together, along with Scott and Danny, and it’s just down the hall. Just as he reaches them, he hears a voice shout, “Hey, Stilinski!” and he turns, Derek automatically moving between him and whatever might be a threat.

But it isn’t a threat, it’s just a classmate, Matt Daehler. He snaps a quick photograph of Stiles and probably gets a great expression of confusion on his face. Isaac, behind him, ducks his head so he won’t lens flare the camera to death. “What was that for, asshole?” Stiles asks, laughing. “Aren’t you yearbook guys done taking your candids yet?”

“Two more weeks until deadline,” Matt says. “I’ve got to get a few more of you two, McCall, and Mahealani for the lacrosse spread. Missed you last semester.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Everyone missed us.”

Matt just rolls his eyes a little, then says to Isaac, “Heard about your dad, man. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, and then adds, “Thanks.”

“You know, since it’s the off-season, the yearbook staff could use some help,” Matt adds. “There’s always a lot of last minute stuff to get, with the prom and that kind of thing. I’d, uh, I’d ask you, Allison, but you’ll be busy, right? Since you’re a shoo-in for prom queen.”

Allison blushes prettily and says, “No, don’t even say that! Everyone knows it’ll be Lydia.”

“Geez, in that case I should run for prom king just so she doesn’t get stuck with Jackson,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

Allison laughs. “She won’t mind. Even though they broke up over two years ago, she’s still always figured that they’d be prom king and queen together.”

Since Jackson and Lydia are on better terms than they used to be, in that they’re actually speaking to one another again, Stiles supposes that it isn’t his place to interfere. Lydia can take care of herself, that much is true. And Stiles has no actual desire to be prom anything. He’ll go, of course, and he’ll take Erica as his date, or maybe he’ll go stag and let Boyd and Isaac escort Erica, or hell, maybe he’ll get Derek to put on a tuxedo and go with him. That might be entertaining, if only to see the look on his classmates’ faces.

“So how about it?” Matt says. “Yearbook staff? Allison?”

“Sorry, I wouldn’t have time,” she says.

“I could maybe help out,” Isaac says. “I hate running track while Finstock shouts at us anyway. I don’t know one end of a camera from another, but there’s probably something I could do.”

“Cool. Catch you after school?” Matt asks, glancing up as the warning bell rings.

“Sure,” Isaac says, and they head off to their next class.

“Do you two know each other?” Stiles asks curiously. He’s seen Matt around, but he’s always just been one of those faces in a crowd. They’ve rarely been in classes together, and don’t do any of the same extra-curriculars, so they’ve always run in different circles.

“We were friends in elementary school and the first year or so of junior high,” Isaac says. “We both liked comic books. But we just sort of lost touch with each other. He used to come over a lot, but I think my dad scared him, and I wasn’t allowed over to other people’s houses, so . . .”

“He’s a little . . .” Allison’s obviously searching for a tactful word. “Overzealous.”

“Is that your way of saying that you’ll mace him if he keeps hitting on you?” Stiles asks, amused. It’s more-than-common knowledge that Scott and Allison are an item in the most committed of ways. They’re probably going to be in that yearbook as ‘most likely to produce beautiful babies together’. No one has bothered to try to flirt with Allison in the last year and a half.

“His concept of boundaries could use a little work,” Allison agrees, waving over her shoulder as she heads to class.

“She’s right, but . . .” Isaac shrugs. “I don’t know. Matt was my friend. And he’s kind of a loner. Like, you know, the rest of us.”

“Well, do your yearbook stuff, have him over some time,” Stiles says. “Maybe he’ll make a good fit.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note or two.... the pronunciation of Przemysław is something like SHEM-iss-vahf. You can go here: http://vocaroo.com/i/s01DgMYlAHLo to hear it spoken by someone who presumably knows what they're doing. I chose it mainly because it looks like an alphabet soup accident on paper, and because it's pronounced nothing like it's spelled. It also apparently means "cleverness" so hey, points for that!
> 
> Stiles' birthday is probably not in April on whatever that laughable thing the TW crew calls a timeline is, but it's what I picked at the beginning of writing this series, so in April it stays. =D

 

Stiles glances up from his vegetables he’s chopping when his father comes in through the front door and greets him. “Hey, Dad,” he says, as the man takes off his gun and hangs up his jacket. “You’ve got that look on your face.”

Sheriff Stilinski looks over into the living room to where Scott and Isaac are sprawled out with a history project they’re working on together. Derek is in his usual spot on the counter. Normally by this point in the day, Scott would have gone back to his own house, sometimes with Isaac or sometimes by himself. But since his father’s death, Isaac has wanted to be around his alpha, so he’s been staying at the Stilinski house or the den most nights. That means Scott has been there large chunks of the time as well.

“Yeah,” Tom agrees, his tone a little heavy. It’s not the voice of impending disaster, but he’s clearly not happy about something. He steps over next to Stiles and holds out a folder, flipping it open so Stiles can see it’s Roger Lahey’s autopsy report. He doesn’t want to announce it out loud, knowing that wolfy ears could hear them from anywhere in the house.

Stiles reaches out and skims the particulars, then lets out a little sigh. He surveys the vegetables and then pushes the cutting board away. “Hey, Isaac,” he says, “stop trying to convince Scott that Neil Armstrong and Louis Armstrong were brothers and get in here.”

Isaac slouches. “He was just starting to crack, too.”

“I was not!” Scott protests. “There’s a thirty year age gap and a race difference which would have been pretty unacceptable at the time.” He concludes by blowing a raspberry at them.

“Or not,” Isaac amends. He slumps into the kitchen. Stiles throws him a piece of cucumber. Isaac catches it and pops it in his mouth, which is quite a change from the time he can remember, where anything flying towards him in the kitchen meant duck and cover. “So what’s going on?” he asks.

Tom sighs a little and gets himself a mug of coffee. “The medical examiner gave me her report on your father today.” He had learned a long time ago that surviving family members don’t like hearing the term ‘autopsy report’ if they don’t have to. He moves a little closer to Isaac, knowing how much the entire pack relies on physical comfort, but he also extends his hand towards the kitchen table and the chairs. Sometimes people freeze up and you have to remind them that some news is better discussed while sitting.

“Oh. I . . . oh.” Isaac swallows convulsively and sinks into one of the chairs.

“It wasn’t anything particularly noteworthy,” Tom proceeds, sitting down himself. “Just that he died of heart failure. It looks like there’s a family history of heart disease, so that was the most likely explanation anyway.”

Isaac starts to nod in agreement, but mostly just ends up looking down at the table. “I . . . he drank too much sometimes.” He seems to be mentioning it as a health risk, rather than any sort of factor that contributed in the way his father treated him. “And in some ways he was sort of like you.” His gaze flickers up to the sheriff then quickly goes back to his hands. They were still before, but now they start folding over each other, fingers knotting together restlessly. “Not . . . not in . . . I mean, sometimes he would work too late or be tired and eat what was easy instead of what was good for him if someone wasn’t there, you know? And . . . I guess no one was there.”

“Whoa, is that guilt I’m hearing?” Stiles looks over from his vegetables. He wants to tell Isaac to cut it the fuck out, but he knows it’s not that easy. And coming from him, it would be even worse. Isaac would try to obey, swallow it down, bottle it up. Eventually it would explode, and then he would only feel worse because he had ‘disobeyed’ the alpha. “Because if so, I would just like to remind you that there were _lots_ of reasons you weren’t there.”

“Just because . . . just because there were other things wrong doesn’t mean I should have walked out of his life completely.” Isaac is talking mostly to the table, but his voice gets a little stronger as he goes.

Stiles seems at a loss as to how to handle that. It’s Sheriff Stilinski who replies, reaching out to grip Isaac’s shoulder. “Kiddo, I know it’s going to take you some time to work through this, and I know that you can’t just not feel what you’re feeling. But try to remember that you had to leave for your own good, and that your father wouldn’t have let you come back a little bit of the way. He would have refused anything you offered unless you were going to let him take control of your life again.”

Isaac takes a breath and then opens his mouth to snap out that maybe that would have been better because at least they would both still be alive. Then he just stops, staring at the sheriff for a minute. He had actually been about to yell at him, and he thinks for a moment about what would have happened if he had yelled at his father. It’s possible that they wouldn’t both be alive at all.

Tom reaches out and pulls Isaac into a somewhat awkward embrace, one hand thumping roughly against his back. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you did the right thing, letting us help you.”

Awkward as it is, Isaac melts into it. He still keeps his distance from most adult men instinctually, but this is nice, comforting, and it’s different from pack. “What happens now?” He suddenly laughs a little. “I know how to arrange a burial, but not a funeral. Not that, you know, there’s anyone who would come to it.”

“Well, your father didn’t leave any instructions, so it’s up to you,” Tom says. “If you want a funeral, we’ll put that together. If not, we won’t.” He lets out a breath. “He didn’t have a will, either, so . . . you would be his sole inheritor.”

“Oh.” Isaac settles back into his seat. “I don’t even know.” He rubs a hand over his face and presses the heels of them into his eyes. “I was putting off thinking about it, I guess.” He’s not talking to anyone specific anymore. “I’ll have to go look through all his business stuff tomorrow.”

“This weekend,” Stiles says firmly. “It can wait until this weekend.”

Sheriff Stilinski nods. “That it can. Why don’t you go finish up your history project?”

“I have to at least know if he hired anyone.” Isaac laughs a little. “People don’t die on a convenient weekend schedule, you know.”

Stiles opens his mouth to point out that Lahey hadn’t owned the only cemetery in town, but then decides to let it go. Isaac’s getting a little punchy, and pushing him to give way will only upset him. “Okay, well, we can look through the basics after school tomorrow.”

Isaac nods. He can accept that compromise. He just wants to make sure there aren’t any families he’s leaving as confused and out of sorts as he is. Stiles studies him in silence for a moment, thinking things over as he dumps green beans into the pot of minestrone he’s making. “We can go over to the house on Friday to look through what’s there. After that, we should totally do that Leverage marathon we’ve been talking about.”

There’s another moment of quiet, and then Isaac nods, knowing that Stiles is finding a way to get all of the pack together so they can make sure Isaac has what he needs. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Tom closes the folder and changes the subject. “That soup had better have some actual food in it,” he says accusingly.

“I keep telling you, vegetables _are_ food,” Stiles replies.

Isaac puts his hands up. “I’m not sticking around for this argument.” He slides his chair back and makes a show of sidling out of the room.

Stiles’ gaze follows him for a moment, a pensive expression on his face. He waits until he can hear Scott and Isaac talking in the other room before he reaches over and taps the folder. “You trust this conclusion?” he asks, knowing that his father has read a hundred times more autopsy reports than he has, and that he knows the medical examiner personally.

Tom nods. “Yeah. I mean, I won’t promise that it’s iron clad, because what the hell is anymore? But it seems legit to me. I saw his body. I thought I owed that to Isaac. I didn’t think there was anything suspicious about it. He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, he drank, he had high blood pressure, didn’t eat very well. Plus I trust Margie’s work. I’ve never had cause to doubt her over the years.”

“Okay.” Stiles lets out a breath. “I know it’s probably just my paranoia talking. I just . . . had to be sure.”

“You’ve got reasons enough to be paranoid,” his father says.

Stiles makes a face at him and goes back to the soup. “You like lima beans, right?”

“How are you my child,” Tom replies flatly.

“Well, when two people love each other very much . . .” Stiles says, but then grimaces a little, as if realizing that the joke he was trying to make isn’t really funny.

“Uh huh,” Tom says. He’s not quite willing to let this sink into the bottomless hole that Claudia’s death had left them with. They don’t talk about her, but she was part of them, and he did love her very much, even now. And this deranged, vegetable-loving fiend was what he had gotten out of it. “I think I’m a little more aware of how it went down than you are, and I’m pretty sure you’d rather keep it that way. Aren’t wolves supposed to be carnivores?”

“Omnivores,” Stiles says, grateful to the change in subject. “In fact – ”

Derek slides off his spot on the counter and slaps a hand over Stiles’ mouth before he can start a ten minute lecture on werewolf digestive systems. “To sum up. We also sometimes eat grass and flowers. Plus we like cookies a lot. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tom says, with an amused shake of his head.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is seriously starting to wonder how much it would hurt his GPA if he just ditched his homework for the last couple months of school. He always just has so many better things to do. Danny and Mac are putting together an app that keeps track of different hunters, their methods, their territory, along with a general trustworthy/bloodthirsty rating. Jake has been helping out with that, and really getting his feet underneath himself, but Stiles wants to double and triple check, and make sure everything they put together is accurate.

He’s also doing some research for a project he and Deaton have been working on. After the spell Eli had put on him that had slowly drained his life from him, Stiles had been trying to come up with a way protection or healing could be done from a distance. He can’t do magic anymore, but he still understands it, so he and Deaton had worked up a kind of beneficial voodoo doll. He had imbued it with several drops of his blood to circumvent the protection spell he wore and was thinking about having the rest of the wolves make their own.

What they were currently working on was an alarm system that would go with it. It doesn’t do Stiles any good if Deaton has the doll but doesn’t know anything is needed. That spell has been a little trickier to put together, and he’s been banging his head against that wall for several weeks. Of course, even if he came up with something, he’s not sure how they’ll test it. He’s not volunteering to have dark magic put on him again.

He’s also elbow deep in Roger Lahey’s business files, although he hasn’t mentioned this to anybody. Isaac had looked through them briefly, realized that he was inheriting more debt than asset, and gotten too upset to keep working on it. Stiles suspects that Lahey’s general attitude had driven away business in the recent years. He’s pretty sure that if they sell the house and have an estate sale, they can end up in the black, but there’s going to be a lot of work to do if Isaac doesn’t want to just sell the cemetery to someone else. In the meantime, he’s delegated Scott and Allison to distracting Isaac with his homework.

It’s a relief when the doorbell rings, signifying the arrival of their pizza. They’re at the Stilinski house because Derek was doing some project earlier that’s made the entire den smell like turpentine, but it’s a smaller gathering than usual, being a school night. Boyd has gone home to see to his siblings; Lydia is at some fashion event with her mother. Jake had gone straight home after school, as he does about fifty percent of the time. Danny and Mac were there for a while, but then left to work on a website that Mac is designing. Her web design business is flourishing.

Stiles springs out of his chair and slaps his laptop shut so nobody will see what he was up to, and heads to the door. He pulls it open and is greeted by an elderly man and woman, both dressed casually and looking quite spry. “Surprise!” the man says, and the woman immediately follows up with, “My God, look at your hair!”

“G-Grandma,” Stiles chokes out. “Grandpa. Hi. Uh.” His brain is completely blank, though he still manages to respond normally as his grandmother pulls him into an embrace. Other than that, neurons were misfiring, all systems going down. He calls out for help in desperation. “Dad? Grandma and Grandpa are here!”

Tom, who was working on several cases spread out over the dining room table, jerks up so suddenly that he almost loses the folder under his elbow and knocks it on the floor. “What?” he says instinctively, but he knows his parents’ voices and immediately stands up to try to rescue his son, who’s most likely about to have a coronary incident. He’s surprised his kid isn’t on the floor while Scott yells ‘alpha down!’ He gives the pack what he hopes is a surreptitious wave to stay put, intensely glad to see that they’re all in human form and fully dressed, as he passes through the kitchen and by the door to the living room on his way to the front door. “Mom, Dad, we didn’t expect you until June!”

“Oh, we know, it’s horrible of us to just show up like this,” his mother says, “but we figured if we headed straight here instead of going the long way, we could be here in time for Przemysław’s birthday!”

Stiles chokes and hopes nobody heard that, despite knowing it’s futile because werewolves.

In the living room, Scott looks down and holds a moment of silent mourning for Stiles’ dignity as every single pack member starts mouthing that tongue twister.

Tom puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sure he’s thrilled. Just startled. Have you had dinner yet? We could go out to celebrate your arrival.” Stiles had better not say his father’s never done anything for him. Although he has to admit an ulterior motive. He really hates those cabbage rolls.

“We ordered pizza . . .” Stiles says weakly.

“Oh, it’s fine, we’ve been in the car for the longest time anyway!” his grandfather says. “We’d much rather just stay here.”

“We could make something if there’s not enough pizza to go around,” his grandmother agrees. “If you have the ingredients, anyway.”

Tom moves himself and Stiles back from the door. “Then come on in,” he says, giving Stiles a shrug.

In the living room, Erica leans over and whispers to Scott, “What did she call him? Is that like a Granny pet name?”

“Yeah,” Scott whispers back. “It means ‘difficult to pronounce’ in English.” It isn’t exactly a lie. It’s more of a pet name than anything else, since as far as he knows, nobody but his grandparents call him that. Scott actually has no idea what it means, so far all he knows, he could be telling the truth.

Isaac and Allison both look mildly dubious, so they clearly aren’t buying it, and Stiles is saying, “Oh, uh, I have some friends over, so . . .”

“The more the merrier!” his grandmother declares, and they come around the corner. “Oh my, there are a lot of them.”

Derek’s eyebrow tics a little, but he keeps his peace in the armchair he’s taken possession of, his gaze trained on a book. He has his back against one arm rest and one leg thrown over the other. Stiles’ laptop is sitting on the floor in front of the chair, where he left his comfortable spot leaning against Derek’s other leg to answer the door. Allison and Scott are sitting at the coffee table next to each other, while Erica is seated at one end of the sofa, with Isaac cuddled up to her despite the ample room available.

Scott bounces to his feet with a smile as everyone except Derek looks up curiously. “Grandma and Grandpa S!” he says. “I didn’t think you were coming until graduation!”

“Well, we couldn’t stay away, hello Scotty,” Stiles’ grandmother says, leaning over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Stiles clears his throat. “Oh, uh, yeah. You know Scott already. That’s his girlfriend Allison . . .” He indicates the brunette with a gesture. “And uh, that’s Isaac and Erica over there, and uhm. Derek. My boyfriend.” He swallows as soon as he says it, his gaze flicking up to gauge his grandparents’ reactions. “And, uh, these are my dad’s parents. Tomasz and Milena.”

“Call us Tom and Millie,” his grandfather says jovially.

All the teenagers offer a greeting, and Allison gives them a bright smile. Derek closes his book and stands up, carefully avoiding Stiles’ laptop as he turns to face the oldest Stilinskis. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, and holds out a hand to shake. He decides against the charming smile that he knows he can pull off, but is ultimately fake.

“Ah, our little boys are all grown up now!” Milena says, miming wiping a tear from the corner of her. “Scott with such a beautiful lady friend, and my goodness, Przemysław, this one looks like he could bench press each of us in one hand! Wherever did you find him, and where can I get one just like him?”

“Grandma!” Stiles protests, flushing bright pink, as Tomasz laughs uproariously.

Erica opens her mouth. Isaac immediately slaps a hand over it.

“But you didn’t tell us you’d met someone,” Milena says.

“Yeah, uhm, well.” Stiles wonders why his normally nimble mouth is completely failing him. There just isn’t anything he can think of to say.

Erica bites Isaac’s hand, and he lets go with a muffled curse. Scott and Allison are both blushing. Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles, wondering the same thing about his usual way of handling things. “I’m a pretty private person.”

“Nonsense, you’re family now!” Tomasz says, slapping him on the back. “You can tell us all about how you two met while we have dinner.”

Stiles gives his father a look of increasing desperation.

Tom looks from his parents to Stiles, and then to Scott, who’s definitely starting to wear that ‘alpha down!’ expression as Stiles tenses up more and more. “Why don’t the three of us head into the kitchen and give the kids some time to finish up their homework before dinner?” he suggests. “C’mon, Dad, I’ll get you a beer.”

“Ah, we didn’t even think of it being a school night,” Milena says. “We’ve been retired for so long and we were just so excited to get here . . .” Her voice trails off as Tom gets an arm around her arm and steers her into the kitchen.

As soon as they’re gone, Stiles flops down on the unoccupied end of the sofa and presses a pillow over his face. “Oh my God,” he says, his voice muffled.

“Shem . . . shim . . .” Erica immediately says.

“Do _not_ ,” Stiles tells her.

“I tried to protect you, man,” Scott says, in complete seriousness. Scott never divulging Stiles’ real name or trying to say it out loud in return for Stiles keeping track of his inhalers is the foundation of their bro-code. These days, ‘find inhalers’ has turned into ‘keep me from killing anyone’, but Scott’s part of the bargain hasn’t changed. He looks at Erica and shakes his head.

Derek puts a loose arm around Stiles and goes to nuzzle his hair, but stops himself at the last second. It’s a blatant animalistic behavior, one that he’s more guilty of than anyone else in the pack. They haven’t prepared for this at all. Stiles had only told the rest of the pack that his grandparents would be visiting a week ago, and they had thought they would have two entire months to figure out what sort of lies they wanted to tell and how they would need to behave. Stiles had even talked about having Veronica and Logan come up for a weekend to help vet their behavior, since the adults around them were so used to it by now. “We’ll tell them the same story that we’ve told everyone else about you and me.”

“That . . . you’re my service dog?” Stiles asks, looking at him blankly, too confused to even be panicked.

Derek’s forehead comes to rest on Stiles’ shoulder. “Yes, Stiles. That’s it exactly. Should I get naked and go get my little blue vest?”

“Absolutely!” Erica says, smirking at him.

“Oh my God,” Allison says, jumping in to try to rein in the circus. “You are the worst. Both of you.”

Derek sighs. “What we’re actually going to tell them is the thing about your father re-opening the case about the fire, and sort of half-adopted me, and so that’s how you and I got to know each other. That’s what everyone down at the station thinks, and I see no reason it won’t work here.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “Yes, okay. I just.” He pulls away a little, then groans. “I have no idea how much physical affection human couples share.”

“When your grandparents are around, cuddling and closed-mouth kisses are about all that’s advisable,” Scott tells him.

“When _my_ grandfather was around, the only thing advisable was a Hazmat suit and a pitchfork,” Allison remarks.

“We’re all glad your grandmother was willing to risk it, or you wouldn’t be here,” Erica says cheerfully.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says. “Thanks for that mental image, holy crap.”

“Always glad to help.” Erica gives him a cheeky grin. “Seriously though. Shemi . . . how do you say it?”

He gives her a look. “You wanna know how to say my name?” he asks, and she nods eagerly. “You really wanna know?” he presses, and she nods again, grinning at him. “Okay. Here goes. One syllable at a time. Nice and easy now. You ready? Stiiiiiiiiles. Say it with me. Stiles.”

Erica pouts. “Jackass. See if I . . .”

Derek cuts her off. “Boyfriend here, remember.”

Isaac groans and covers his face with both hands. “We didn’t practice for this.”

“We’ll get through it,” Scott says, trying to be optimistic and encouraging, since Stiles looks like he’s about to have a stroke. “It’s just a couple hours. And then Stiles will just have to handle things while they visit. The rest of us can keep each other company. We’ll see him at school, so . . . we’ll just have to make that enough.”

Derek obviously thinks that Scott is being hopelessly optimistic. But then he really looks at his packmate and realizes that _Scott_ thinks Scott is being hopelessly optimistic.

“Przemysław!” Milena calls cheerfully from the kitchen. “Come help us set the table, I’ve brought some things . . .”

Stiles’ shoulders slump. With the air of someone heading for the gallows, he goes into the kitchen.

“It’s pizza,” Derek mutters, knowing the others will hear and giving them a baffled look.

Scott holds up his hands in surrender and says, “Don’t ask me.”

Derek follows Stiles into the kitchen to see that it’s _not_ just pizza, that his grandmother is putting a casserole dish into his hands and saying words in Polish that he can’t hope to pronounce or understand. Stiles is nodding, so apparently _he_ understands, and Derek catches him give a little grimace as he peeks inside the dish. “You know, while you’re here, you can just call me Stiles, everyone does,” he says.

“Nonsense,” she replies. “Your mother wanted to honor her father by giving you that name, who are we to argue?”

“Even _she_ didn’t call me that after I was five,” Stiles tries.

“You, Mac, and Boyd can start a club,” Derek tells him.

“Here,” Tom says, handing Derek a beer. He looks at Stiles, then shakes his head. “I’d give you one but it wouldn’t help.”

“No kidding,” Stiles says. “But Grandma, I’m glad you came for my birthday, but it’s too bad you’ll miss graduation. Presuming I don’t flub anything too badly, I’m going to be salutatorian, and you’ll miss my speech. It’s going to be epic, so you can probably catch it on YouTube later, though.”

“But we can’t miss your graduation!” Milena says. “We have the RV, we’ll be fine, we’ll just stay until then.”

Stiles fumbles the casserole dish. Some of Derek’s muscles twitch, but he manages to keep himself from using his werewolf reflexes, not reacting quite fast enough to save the dish. It would have been easier in public. He has years of practice not outing himself in obvious ways like that, but there are places that are safe, and this house is usually one of them. He makes the expected startled noise and too-slow save.

“Well, that hasn’t changed,” Tomasz says, studying the mess on the floor. “That’s okay, pizza sounds fine with me – ”

“Tomasz, don’t be ridiculous, you can’t have fatty things like that, think of your cholesterol,” Milena says, in a tone that is almost exactly like Stiles when he scolds his father. In the other room, Erica lets out a cackle of laughter. Allison and Isaac are snickering as well.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Dad,” Tom says to his father. “We’ll get stuck with the light cheese, extra veggie pizza. Still, better than no pizza at all.”

Stiles is still just standing there, his body vibrating with tension. “You’re going to be here two months?” he asks, as visions of ‘the pack will just have to do without me for a week or so’ start to dissolve in his head.

It takes Derek less than a second to decide that keeping Stiles from having a complete meltdown in the kitchen is more important than maintaining a semblance of absolute normalcy. And a meltdown is coming. He can feel it coming across the bond like a mix of static and that horrible pitch of a dog whistle. So he steps around the mess of food and ceramic to stand by Stiles’ side and lean into his field of vision. Coming at him from behind isn’t a good idea right now. He reaches out and takes a hold of Stiles’ hand. “We’ll, uh, we’ll be back,” Derek says, mostly to Sheriff Stilinski, as he starts to move Stiles out of the kitchen.

Tom gives them both a brief nod and says, “Yeah, he’s got that all over him,” although really there are only a few splashes of food on the shins of his jeans. In a louder voice, he calls out, “Scott, come help me clean this up, okay?”

Scott is on his feet and moving moments later, and gives Stiles a reassuring shoulder squeeze as he goes past him. Stiles is actually starting to hyperventilate as Derek steers him through the living room, barely listening as he tells the others he’ll take care of this and then ushering him up the stairs to the privacy of his bedroom. He had been telling himself for a week that he could handle this. A few days without the pack, it’s not a big deal, he’s managed before. But he can’t manage more than a week. His pack is his life. He _needs_ them, in a way that’s entirely impossible to explain but no less real. Even telling himself that he’ll still have Derek and probably Scott around, and he can see them in school, doesn’t help. They’re his to take care of. They belong to him. Even those he’s not as close to, like Boyd and Danny, he can’t just _not have_ for two months.

Derek sits Stiles down on his bed, grabs the desk chair, and sits in that right across from Stiles so they’re knee-to-knee. “Hey.” He gives Stiles’ hand a tight squeeze. “Take a deep breath.” It’s more of an order than anything else. A gentle one, but still a definite directive. Derek’s hoping he can just help Stiles get a hold of himself before the panic spirals any further down on him.

“Oh, God,” Stiles says, taking a hitching breath. “I can’t do this, I thought I could but I can’t.”

“For now, just breathe. Can you do that?” Derek isn’t sure exactly how to help, because he doesn’t have any helpful ideas, and saying ‘we’ll work something out’ is a useless platitude. Platitudes are a good way to get Stiles to get his back up.

“Yeah.” Stiles takes several breaths. “Oh, God, no. I’m calling Gwen.” He fumbles for his cell phone. He has her emergency number, which he’ll need, since it’s six thirty in the evening. He’s never used it before. Not for werewolf problems, PTSD flashbacks, nightmares, or anything. He scrolls down in his list and hits the button with prejudice.

It only rings twice before it’s answered in a calm, professional tone. “This is Gwen Mulroney.”

“Gwen? Gwen, it’s Stiles.” He isn’t sure of the protocol, since he’s never called her emergency number before.

“Hi, Stiles.” Her voice warms up considerably, so it sounds the same as it would if they were having a session face-to-face. “What’s going on?” The question is in no way chatty. She doesn’t sound worried, but it’s definitely a request for information.

“I am _freaking_ out over here,” Stiles tells her. “My grandparents are here, remember, I said they were going to be coming this summer, well, they decided to come early, and they want to stay until graduation, that’s two whole _months_ and I can’t – I don’t know how to handle this and I don’t – ”

“Stiles, can you take a deep breath for me?” Gwen asks, and then says, “I’m going to need to ask you some questions so we can work on this.”

Stiles takes another breath. Derek sits down on the bed next to him so he can put a hand on Stiles’ knee, listening to both sides of the conversation. “Okay, yeah, okay. I’m okay. Ask away.”

“Where are you right now? Are you alone?”

“I’m at home. In my room. Derek’s with me.” Stiles’ breathing is evening out as Gwen’s questions give him something to focus on. “My grandparents and my dad are downstairs. Like half the pack was here when they got here. So they’re downstairs too.”

“Okay, it’s good that Derek’s with you, that you’re not alone. Are your grandparents staying with you?”

“It, uh, it didn’t get discussed before I had a freak-out and Derek towed me out of the room before I could say _all_ the regrettable things. But yeah. I mean, they have an RV, but my dad isn’t going to make them sleep in an RV for two months.”

“Okay. Right at this moment, I’m just concerned about getting you through tonight.” There’s a pause. “I have an opening tomorrow at ten thirty if you’d like to come in, but right now I just want to focus on the here and now.”

“Okay. Yeah. Focus. I can do that. I’ll skip school tomorrow. Fuck school anyway.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. Aren’t you competing with Lydia for the top spot? I’ll write you a note,” she adds in a joking manner.

“Are you kidding? Lydia’s GPA is like four-point-one-million,” Stiles says, but the tension is easing out of his voice now, his breathing coming into his lungs, slow and steady. “More like I’m jockeying with two or three others for salutatorian. Which I don’t actually care that much about anyway. What am I gonna say in my speech? I’d like to thank the Academy, and also all the people who have put up with me all the times I was nearly getting killed.”

“They and you might appreciate a short speech,” Derek hazards, in a quietly amused tone of voice.

“Stiles, are you going to tell me that given the opportunity, you couldn’t come up with something that would be both meaningful and hilarious to your classmates?” Gwen asks dryly.

“Gwen, focus,” Stiles tells her. “You’re supposed to be helping me cope, not feeding my considerable ego.”

“I am helping you cope,” Gwen replies. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m no longer about to pass out,” Stiles admits, “but afraid to go back downstairs.”

“Do you like your grandparents?”

“Yes! Yes, I love my grandparents, even though my grandmother insists on calling me by my real name. They’re, like, old-people-adorable. We can play chess and make borscht and look at family photos and shit.”

“Okay. That’s good. So here’s what you’re going to do for this evening. You’re going to think about _only_ this evening. Don’t worry about tomorrow or next week or graduation. Just this evening. You like them, so enjoy their company. Use that to take your mind off everything else. All you have to do is get through tonight. We’ll worry about everything else tomorrow at ten thirty. Do you think you can do that?”

“But what about the pack?” Stiles asks, his voice rising in pitch. “How am I supposed to act? I don’t know how to not be their alpha! Should I make them go? Would it look weird if I did? What about Derek? I can’t just send him away, not now, not when I’m having a freak-out!”

Derek gives Stiles’ knee a little shake as he hears his heart rate start to climb again. “Breathing. It’s important.” He wishes he could shift, because he’s pretty sure that being able to grab and clutch at his fur helps Stiles calm down and feel safe. But he doesn’t dare risk someone walking in and finding a wolf instead of a man.

“I think it would be helpful if Derek could stay with you,” Gwen says. “Tell me what’s happened so far.”

Stiles manages to stammer out a quick summary, ending with, “So that’s, what, three times we’ve _already_ nearly blown our cover, in what, ten minutes?”

“Those things seem glaring to _you_ , because you’re looking for them,” Gwen says. “It’s highly unlikely that your grandparents noticed. You know that Derek wanted to catch the dish, but no one else will read anything strange into that. Erica probably will say something before the end of the meal that proves that she has a dirty mouth and a dirty mind. Your grandparents will figure that you and Derek are very close and yes, somewhat touchy-feely, but if you’re using the ‘boyfriend’ cover then that won’t seem particularly out of the ordinary. If anything, your lack of embarrassment over a display of affection means your relationship is healthy and that you trust your family to value it as much as you do. As for Derek dragging you out of the room . . .” She’s quiet for a minute. “It isn’t uncommon for sudden, loud noises to be upsetting to people who have suffered trauma. If anyone brings it up or asks, that’s what you can say. But I don’t think you need to offer an explanation unless someone asks.”

Stiles takes another few deep breaths. He’s still freaked out, but he’s starting to think that Gwen’s right and he can at least survive one evening. He might have to bribe good behavior out of Erica, but the rest will play along. He still has no idea how they’re going to handle the next two months, but they’ll make it. “Okay. I . . . okay. I can do this.”

“Yes, you can. Remember, just tonight. That’s all you need to worry about.”

“Right.” Stiles huffs out a breath. “Sorry to, uh, sorry to bother you in the evening over something so stupid.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Stiles. I give out the number for emergencies. I wouldn’t call this stupid.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it an emergency, either,” Stiles says, and laughs for the first time. It’s weak, but there. “But uh, we can discuss my self-sufficiency complex tomorrow.”

“Yes, we can. Are you ready to go back downstairs?”

“Yeah. Thanks again.” Stiles says goodbye and hangs up the phone. He grabs Derek’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Once more unto the breach?”

Derek squeezes back and gives a decisive nod. He stands up to get the momentum going but doesn’t move towards the door until Stiles is ready.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I really enjoy writing Milena Stilinski. She's just... so much fun!

 

The pizza has arrived while they’ve been upstairs, and somehow Sheriff Stilinski has gotten his mother to stop trying to produce casserole dishes out of thin air. He’s also taken advantage of Stiles’ absence to load up on slices with pepperoni and sausage, the last of which he guiltily shoves into his mouth as Stiles comes back into the kitchen. Stiles narrows his eyes at his father, but then decides to let it go as thanks for his father covering for him earlier. “Great, I’m starved,” he says, as if his extended absence was completely normal, and he goes for a paper plate and a can of Coke. The rest of the pack is clustered around one side of the table, stuffing their faces.

Derek shakes his head a little in amusement, partly just to play along. He lets his gaze stray to the pack for a few moments, but there isn’t really any way to communicate much of anything in their current company, so he goes about getting himself some food and an orange soda.

Milena is full of concern. “Przemysław, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Grandma, I just . . .” Stiles swallows hard and focuses on when Gwen told him. “Sometimes get startled easily, that’s all.”

Erica perks up. “Can you teach me how to pronounce Stiles’ real name?” she asks.

Milena smiles brightly and says, “Of course, it’s from the Polish – ”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles snaps, so hard that Erica flinches. Then he realizes what he just did and hopes to hell that his eyes didn’t turn red. “No, I mean, it’s just – ”

“This is really good pizza,” Scott interrupts smoothly. “Is it from the same place as last time? Because I thought that place was really greasy.”

“No, I ordered from Barro’s this time,” Allison says, as if the way Scott had talked right over their alpha was completely normal.

Meanwhile, Derek moves closer to Stiles, hoping the proximity will be a comfort and help take him off the edge he’s found himself on. He’s careful to keep himself in Stiles’ line of sight, both because he doesn’t want to startle Stiles and because no one in any pack would be stupid enough to come up behind their alpha when he’s just dished out an order like that. Not even the lupa. He does shoot a quick look at Erica to make sure that she’s okay. Despite how Stiles reacted, he’s certain that she didn’t mean any harm.

She looks a little shaken, but exchanges a quick grimace with him to show that she knows Stiles isn’t really angry, but just edgy. Then she fills her mouth with more pizza while Scott and Allison continue to talk about completely meaningless things. The crowd is big enough that Sheriff Stilinski is able to keep his parents distracted by asking them about how their trip was so they aren’t focused on the group of teenagers.

Once Tom has the grandparents thoroughly distracted, Scott leans over and quietly asks Stiles, “You want us to go or stay? Which is better, distraction and confusion or less to deal with?”

Stiles takes a few moments to actually think about it. He remembers Gwen’s advice. Deal just with tonight. Don’t worry about the lengthier situation. “I . . . I think it’s probably better if you guys go.” He lets out a breath, not even realizing that one of his hands is clenched into a fist in the hem of Derek’s shirt. He doesn’t want to push the pack away, but he’ll be on edge the entire evening if they’re there. Once they’re gone, he’ll be able to relax a little more, despite the inevitable loneliness that being separated from the pack causes. Scott just nods, not offended.

Derek curls his hand over Stiles’ where he has that grip on his shirt, not trying to make him let go, just holding on, trying to reach for what Stiles is feeling through the bond. Normally when he acts as backup for Stiles it’s for practical things, but this time he thinks that Stiles just needs _help_ , and doesn’t know what to ask for. Scott knows Stiles pretty well, and Derek won’t discount that. Scott wouldn’t offer to leave if he didn’t think it might be a good idea. So yes, Stiles needs them to go, but even if it’s a school night, Derek decides to override that. They’re all on edge, and if they stay together, it won’t be so bad that they’re being asked to leave their alpha’s presence. “Can everyone go back to your place and watch a movie or two?”

“Sure,” Scott says, wisely not questioning Derek’s decision or bothering to point out that they have school. “I’ll text the others an update, too. They’re probably feeling a little edgy.”

“Geez, yeah, I should have _thought_ of that – ” Stiles says, hand gripping at Derek’s tighter.

Derek matches his grip. “No. It’s fine,” he tells Stiles, his tone even. “Scott just thought of it. He’ll talk to everyone, like he said, and it’ll be fine.” He wraps his free arm around Stiles, pulling him close but loose enough for Stiles to get free without any real effort. “Most of the time you take care of us. Sometimes we take care of you.” He keeps it quiet so the words won’t be audible to anyone without enhanced hearing.

“But I should have at least _realized_ – ” Stiles protests, and he’s got that panicky edge to him again.

Scott takes a breath, bracing himself, but does at least manage to keep his voice down. “Stiles, you’re allowed to have your own emotions without trying to baby-sit ours. Now take a deep breath before I shove my inhaler in your mouth.”

Stiles blinks at him for a moment, then draws in a stuttering breath. “That’s a really terrible way of breaking off a panic attack, you know,” he says, unable to resist the urge to point this out. “I only did it to you because, you know, you were actually asthmatic.”

Scott just gives him a look, then a grin. “Nope. Worked like a charm.”

“Well, I just want it on record that it was my terrible idea first.”

“Noted,” Scott replies.

“What are you two mumbling about over there?” Milena asks, smiling over at the two teenagers.

“Weekend plans,” Scott says with a shrug. It seems legitimate. The sudden arrival of relatives might mess up plans.

“Oh, I hope we didn’t interrupt anything too important,” Tomasz says.

“No, we were just going to go see a movie and stuff,” Allison says.

“Maybe we could go see it with you!” Milena enthuses. “What picture is it? I’m such a fan of that Iron Man.” She fans herself dramatically, and her husband chortles.

Allison’s mouth opens and then it just sort of stays that way.

Sheriff Stilinski steps in. “Mom, you’re traumatizing them.”

Milena sniffs and says, “If that’s all it takes, they need some toughening up.”

“Anyway,” Scott interrupts hastily, “we should probably get going. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve got about fifty pages of A Passage to India and twenty trig problems that are moldering in my backpack from lack of attention.”

“Hah!” Erica says. “You read that. I’ll go rewatch the first Iron Man movie.” She grins at Milena. “Good taste,” she adds, but she does start gathering up her things along with the others.

Stiles grimaces. “Dad, we’re going to need to enact some sort of legislation that makes sure Grandma and Erica are never in a room together, ever again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Stilinski says. He looks like he means it.

Milena smiles merrily at Erica and says, “We’ll do lunch next week, okay, honey? You kids be good now!”

“See you tomorrow,” Scott says, giving Stiles a manly shoulder squeeze that will have to do in place of the typical hugs of departure. Stiles just gives them a nod in return. Erica just smiles back at Milena, but doesn’t actually agree to anything, and won’t without her alpha’s permission. She, Allison, and Isaac wave as they leave, and it feels strange to leave without touching him or Derek.

As the front door closes behind them, Milena says, “My goodness, I remember when you were such a loner. However did you make so many friends?”

Tomasz laughs again. “Millie! You can’t just ask the boy how he made friends.”

Derek glances at Stiles and sees that he’s floundering, and smoothly takes over. Lies to explain pack is something he can do. That’s part of the Werewolf 101 when someone grew up in a pack. It didn’t always hold up under time or scrutiny, but for pulling out quick answers, he’s okay. “It’s mostly because of Allison. She and Scott started dating, and she’s really social, so . . .”

Milena beams at him. “Well, I think it’s wonderful! Of course, we have to hear all about how you two got together.”

Derek moves a little closer to Stiles on instinct, but falls back on the cover story that they’ve been feeding most of the adults in town the entire time. “The Sheriff sort of took me in when I first got back into town and my family’s case was re-opened.”

“Well, it didn’t really seem right to leave you on your own, son,” Tom says, hoping to draw some attention back to himself, watching how tense Stiles is and how Derek is hovering by him.

“What case?” Milena asks, blinking at them.

“Oh, uh,” Stiles says, now jolting back to himself as he feels Derek tense beside him, “not really dinner conversation, Grandma.”

Derek is instantly grateful to Stiles because of that. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that he would have to explain. Almost anyone he’s ever had meaningful contact with knows about the fire, if only because of their proximity to the event when it happened. In the end, even the art community he interacts with is basically aware, if only because the imagery appears so prominently in his work. “Anyway, we just started getting to know each other and things progressed from there, I guess.”

“Well, I can hardly blame you!” Milena says. “Anyone with a brain in their head would fall in love with Przemysław. Isn’t that right, Tommy?” she adds, elbowing her son in the ribs.

Tom looks between his mother and his son and nods. “Absolutely.”

Stiles makes a face at him. Milena just beams and then says, “And what about you, Tom, any luck with Scotty’s mother? Managed to ask her out yet?”

Stiles chokes on a mouthful of pizza.

“Oh, Jesus,” Derek mutters.

Sheriff Stilinski just blinks at his mother.

“Oh, is that how you’re going to deal with my perfectly reasonable suggestion now? By pretending we haven’t had the discussion before?” Milena sniffs. “That’s very childish of you, Tommy. You two would be perfect together. Everyone thinks so.”

“Can we run away now?” Derek asks quietly.

“Run away, are you kidding, things are finally getting good!” Stiles hisses underneath his breath.

“Mother, Melissa and I are very happy with the friendship we have,” Tom tells Milena.

“Yes, but imagine how much _happier_ you would be if you took my advice! At least take the poor woman out to dinner!”

“Are you insane?” Derek mutters back, but Stiles just grins at him.

“Mother, you make it sound like she just sits at home, pining for my attention,” Tom replies, gesturing with one hand.

“Psh, of course not! Melissa is a strong, independent woman who absolutely doesn’t need a man to be complete! She’s perfect for you!”

“Except for the part where she has shown no interest in dating me?” Tom asks.

Milena reaches out and pats her son’s hand. “Honey. Of course she hasn’t. She can’t! She can’t make the first move. And it has nothing to do with feminism or any of that. It’s because her husband was a lazy, good-for-nothing, shark-faced bastard, and she threw him out. _She_ can enter the dating game whenever she wants. But you, honey, you lost Claudia . . . nobody could ever ask you to date again until you’re ready. So she’s waiting for some sign from you! And you aren’t helping the poor woman out in the slightest.”

Tom’s hands come up a little and then fall back to the table like he’s resisting one of those expansive flailing motions that his son employs when flustered. “Dad, help a man out here,” he implores.

Derek buries his nose in Stiles’ hair as he watches the show, like he can’t quite believe he’s seeing this.

“Oh, I have helped,” Tomasz says, gesturing with his beer. “I’ve probably saved your life. You remember that time we visited when Przemysław was thirteen? He and Scott were about to employ Parent Trap levels of antics to get you two together, and when Millie found out about it – ”

“I _still_ say the part with the blueberries would have worked,” Milena sniffs haughtily.

“Grandma!” Stiles protests. “We had a deal that you wouldn’t tell Grandpa! Is that why you finked out on me?”

“You know, I think I hear sirens in the distance,” Tom says, edging towards the door.

“Blueberries?” Derek asks, pulling away from Stiles enough to give him a curious look.

Stiles rubs a hand over his head. “Uh. There was a Farmer’s Market. It all would have been very stealthy. I assure you.”

“Uh huh,” his father says.

“Anyway, after Grandma _finked out on me_ ,” Stiles says loudly, “Scott and I had to abort, and then Grandpa told us that we had to cut it out, if it was meant to happen, it would. He quoted Polish proverbs at me until I thought my ears were going to fall off. And that’s why Ms. McCall is still lonely and single, the end.”

“No. Stop. She is not ‘lonely and single’ like some . . . helpless flower of womanhood. That woman has a baseball bat and she is not afraid to use it. You know that, right?”

“You can only say that because you didn’t see her the last time she got asked on a date, she was – ” And Stiles just stops talking abruptly because that date had been with _Peter_ , and Melissa _had_ been happy about it, and on a normal day he might have been able to deal with that, but at this particular moment, that memory starts to send him into complete neurological shutdown.

Derek’s arm tightens around Stiles for a moment as his voice stutters to a halt. “Just as long as no one looks at me for any sort of dating advice or opinion. You know, given that Stiles and I never really dated. We just sort of looked up one day and realized we were a couple.” He hopes that the sudden subject change didn’t seem like it was as desperate as it felt.

“Oh, that’s so romantic!” Milena says.

“Millie, that’s practically the opposite of romantic,” Tomasz says, chuckling. “Not that I think it’s a bad thing,” he hastily assures Stiles and Derek. “But it isn’t romantic.”

“No, it’s fine, I wouldn’t know romantic if it bit me,” Derek says, thinking that he would most likely bite it back.

“Tomasz was _such_ a romantic, don’t let him tell you any different, and Tommy, my goodness – oh, though I suppose I shouldn’t talk so much about Claudia, I don’t mean to step on anyone’s feelings, I know that you don’t talk about her very much.” She looks at Derek and adds, “But she was a very lovely lady, you know, she and Tommy were childhood friends but then we moved away, and they didn’t meet again until we moved back when he was seventeen and it was love at first sight, instant, like you see in the films – Przemysław, are you all right over there? You look pale.”

“Does anyone else think it’s warm in here?” Stiles chokes out, reaching up to the collar of his shirt and pulling it away from his throat.

“Yeah, a little,” Derek says, and he offers a smile that’s a little tighter than he wants it to be to Stiles’ grandparents. Without another word, he gets a hand underneath Stiles’ elbow, lifts him to his feet, and steers him onto the back porch. He nudges the door closed behind them with his foot as Stiles stumbles forward, grabbing the railing in both hands and pulling for air. He looks terrible, several shades paler than usual, sweat beading on his neck and forehead.

Derek moves to stand beside him, within easy reach and easy sight. His jaw is clenched tightly because his temper is riding too close to the surface. He shouldn’t be inside any more than Stiles is. He reaches over and lays one of his hands over Stiles’, wishing he knew how to help. Giving in to his first impulse, which was to tell his grandparents to shut the hell up, didn’t seem like it was a good choice.

“I – I think – Jesus, help me sit down,” Stiles says, swaying on his feet. “I’m – dizzy. Think I’m having – a panic attack.”

“Okay.” Derek gets a hand underneath his elbow again and one around his waist, helping ease Stiles down to the floor with his back against the railing. Once he’s reasonably sure that Stiles won’t tip over sideways, he sits down in front of him. “We can get through this.”

“I don’t – don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Stiles says, eyes wide, twisting both hands in his hair. They won’t stop shaking.

Derek wants to reach out and take Stiles’ hands and stop him, but he knows better. If Stiles is doing that, it’s because he finds it grounding somehow. So he forces his own hands to stay in his lap. “Part of it’s because so many things came up that you aren’t ready to talk about.”

“I, I know, it’s just – I thought I was getting _better_ , I haven’t had any panic attacks or flashbacks except when, you know, bad shit is going down – not for months – but now suddenly I can’t handle dinner with my _grandparents_ , oh fuck.” Stiles stops talking and swallows convulsively.

“Well,” Derek says carefully, thinking that at least if Stiles is talking on and off, he’s breathing, “your grandparents aren’t exactly being helpful.”

At this, Stiles manages a shaky smile. “They’ve always been like this.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“About – two years ago?” Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “The summer of the alpha trial, remember, my Dad and I went to visit? Since Allison was in France and Lydia went to Boston for that robotics convention and – I guess Dad knew that we might not get a chance to visit for a while because of, well, everything – so we decided to go visit. You spent most of the time in San Fran getting your gallery up and running.”

“So pretty much away from anything unusual, the pack was smaller, and fewer things had happened,” Derek sums up.

“Yeah, and I mean, they were worried, they heard all about the shoot-out in the woods – it was national fucking news, for Christ’s sake, we couldn’t exactly keep it from them, so Dad said if we didn’t go see them they’d probably find an excuse to come to Beacon Hills, and there was just – too much shit going on. And I love my grandparents, I do, but I’m so fucking sick of pretending and keeping secrets, and, and if something happens I might not be able to protect them, and something _always happens_ in this godforsaken town – ”

Derek looks like he might say something, but then his eyes shift away and he changes his mind. He looks back at Stiles and says, “We can tell them the truth if you want.” He’s careful to keep it an offer instead of a suggestion. He doesn’t want to push Stiles into anything.

“Ugh, no, they’re like ninety! Grandpa would probably have a heart attack if he saw an actual werewolf.” Stiles shakes his head a little. “But they, uh, they do know I have PTSD. I know my dad has talked to them about it. They just think it’s because of the shoot-out, not because of werewolf shenanigans.”

Derek holds his hands up in semi-surrender. “I’m not going to try to convince you, or argue, it’s totally your call, but objectively? Your grandparents seem pretty spry. No imminent collapse sensed over here.” But he does relax a little. At least they don’t have to try to pretend everything is fine.

Stiles makes a face at him. “Yeah, I know. But I’d like to keep them that way.” He rubs one hand over his arm. “They know about the panic attacks, too. I mean, I had them when I was younger. After my mom died. And they stayed with us for a while after that.”

“Then why does your grandmother keep bringing up things like your mom, if she knows it bothers you and your dad so much?” Despite his best effort, irritation creeps into his tone.

“Because she thinks that not talking about it isn’t healthy.” Stiles shrugs a little. “Maybe she’s even right. She thinks we need better coping mechanisms,” he adds, with a quirk of his lips.

Derek makes a face. “I told you that because your old ones weren’t working.”

“Well, clearly Grandma thinks that if ours were working, Dad would be dating Melissa McCall by now.” Stiles lets out a little laugh. His breathing has evened out, and he’s less pale. “Thanks. I’m probably going to be a mess for two months straight.”

“Because I’ve never been a mess,” Derek says with a snort. He decides to leave the whole thing with Stiles’ mother alone. Just the way Stiles and his father would want it. Who is he to argue?

“And I’m going to go in there and she’s going to be like ‘are you all right, Przemysław, do you need something to drink, Przemysław, do you want to talk about it, Przemysław’ until I have another panic attack and wind up right back out here.” Stiles groans and droops his head back forward, resting his forehead in the crook of Derek’s neck and shoulder.

Derek turns and rubs his cheek against Stiles’ hair, but resists the urge to pull him into a hug. “Is that because she’ll flutter at you or because she’ll use your birth name?” He’s not stupid enough to ignore the way Stiles had snapped at Erica. He knows enough about magic and tradition to know that names can be tricky for vast numbers of reasons that have nothing to do with how hard they are to pronounce.

“Can’t both be true?” Stiles replies.

“Sure. But one is easier for me to interfere with than the other.”

Stiles grimaces and says, “Trust me, there’s no force in this ‘verse that can stop Grandma from calling me Przemysław.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to settle for being a buffer, then.” Derek indulges in burying his nose in Stiles’ hair for a moment. “Using up months and months of words.”

“Hey, if I’d realized they were going to be here for so long, I would have, like, imposed some sort of word rationing in preparation, but trust me, nobody saw this coming,” Stiles says. “On the other hand, if you could find some excuse to take your shirt off, Grandma might finally stop talking.”

“Yeah, but then she might try to pet me,” Derek says, although he gives him a crooked little smile.

“She’s a harmless old lady. Take one for the team!”

“She isn’t harmless. You tried to ban her from spending time with Erica. That’s like the opposite of harmless.”

“True,” Stiles says, and gives a little laugh. “Once more unto the breach?” he adds, trying to wobble to his feet.

Derek gets a steadying hand on his waist. “If you’re ready.”

“I’ll manage.” Stiles lets out a breath and heads back inside. While they were on the back porch, Sheriff Stilinski has managed to get his parents out of the kitchen and into the living room. Tomasz is in the armchair and has reclined it all the way and promptly fallen asleep. Milena is on the sofa with her son, showing him photographs of their trip so far.

She looks up when they come back in. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out.”

“I’m fine, Grandma,” Stiles says, sitting down on her other side. Without much thought, Derek folds down to sit on the floor in front of Stiles so one shoulder brushes the teenager’s legs. Then he leans forward and paws around through the things left on the coffee table until he comes up with a sketch book and a bag of pencils and pens he leaves there.

Sheriff Stilinski, for his part, looks over at the two of them like he isn’t quite sure he believes Stiles but is willing to let it go for now. Milena’s gaze is trained on Derek and she says, “Oh, do you draw? Show me!”

Derek’s normal response to a request like that would be to roll his eyes into the next county, because of course he draws, isn’t it obvious. He’s holding a sketchbook full of drawings. But he doesn’t, because that’s not how one makes conversation. He learned that lesson long before meeting Milena. So he decides to take one for the team and settle for being grateful that he gets to keep his shirt, handing over the sketchbook.

“Oh, these are lovely!” Milena says.

“He doesn’t just draw, Grandma, he’s like an actual artist with a gallery in San Francisco and paintings that sell for thousands of dollars and shit,” Stiles chimes in.

Derek narrows his eyes at Stiles. “I’m not _like_ an actual artist. I _am_ an actual artist.” He figures that if Stiles is going to throw him under the bus, he has a right to critique Stiles’ grammar.

Stiles rolls his eyes at Derek. Milena just smiles and says, “Oh, show me some of your paintings! You must have them on your phone, right?” To her grandson, she adds, “I love all this new technology you youngsters are inventing! Tomasz got me an iPad for my birthday last year; I keep trying to teach my book group how to skype but it’s a losing battle, let me tell you.”

This actually does amuse Derek. “Just as long as you don’t all start converting to e-books.” He pulls out his phone and starts thumbing through his photos until he gets to and opens the right folder. A laptop and the website would be better, but he’s not going to ask Stiles to get up and get his computer. He quietly hopes that the small size will make it difficult to tell how many of them feature Stiles.

“These are amazing!” Milena says, thumbing through the gallery. “Oh, this one of Przemysław cuddled up with the wolves is so darling!”

Derek gives a little grimace, but doesn’t protest.

“My, a lot of them have wolves,” Milena says.

“Wolves are Derek’s spirit animal,” Stiles tells her.

Derek shrugs in an accepting sort of manner. It’s as good an explanation as anything else. Since she’s already noticed the weird themes, he adds, “I can take you by my studio before you leave, if you want.” The originals of the pack paintings are all at the den, anyway.

Milena beams at him. “That would be lovely!” Then she turns the smile on her grandson. “Handsome, polite, _and_ talented; however did you find such a catch?”

“Aw, Grandma, are you implying that I’m not any of those things?” Stiles says, with a fake pout.

“Oh, don’t ask me to flatter you, little boy, I know that you can’t take a compliment,” Milena replies.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that Derek can take one either, Mom,” Tom says, because he can already see Derek looking away, the tips of his ears turning pink. He doesn’t bother to dispel her notions about Derek’s relative politeness.

“Well, but this will be lovely!” Milena says. “Since Tom has to work and Stiles has school, but you must have a more flexible schedule, hm? So you can show us around town and such!”

Derek gives her a slow blink. “It’s Beacon Hills. Not a lot to show,” he says, completely deadpan.

“Besides, Mom, just because Derek doesn’t work nine to five doesn’t mean he isn’t busy,” Tom hastily intervenes, before Derek can say something rude or Milena can say something ridiculous. “You’re going to have to entertain yourselves.”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Milena says, with a sigh.

There’s also the issue of ‘Jack’, who can’t just disappear from Stiles’ school life without a lot of people asking awkward questions. Derek sighs and settles closer to Stiles’ legs, wondering if he was always this socially incompetent. Fortunately for him, Tom takes out a deck of cards and suggests a game. They wind up back around the kitchen table (except for Tomasz, who’s still asleep in the recliner) and Milena starts teaching Derek and Stiles how to play cribbage.

Stiles is worn out by his earlier panic attacks, and starts to yawn and make stupid mistakes fairly quickly. “You should get some sleep,” his father tells him. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“At least it’s Friday,” Stiles says.

“Yes, but we promised we would take Isaac over to his father’s house after school, remember?” Tom reaches out and squeezes Stiles’ hand. To Milena, he adds, “Isaac – the curly-haired boy you met earlier tonight – unfortunately, his father passed away a few days ago. We’ve been helping him . . . navigate, I guess would be the best way to put it. He was the sole inheritor, so there’s a lot that needs to be done.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Milena says, with sincerity. “I hope the boy’s all right.”

“He’ll be fine,” Tom tells her. “It just might be a little rough, that’s all. We’ll get him through it.”

Stiles yawns again despite himself, and when he sees all the adults looking at him, says, “Yeah, I’m gonna hit the hay.” He leans over and gives his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be really busy tomorrow, but I’ll see you this weekend, okay?”

“Of course, honey.” Milena gives him a hug. Then she turns her smile on Derek. “It was nice to meet you, Derek. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, realizing a little belatedly that Milena expects him to leave, since Stiles is going to bed. He clears his throat and stands up, supporting Stiles as he wobbles. It’s clear that Stiles has just made the connection as well, because he blinks and his gaze darts to Derek as if to see if he’s really planning to go. Derek gives his hand a reassuring squeeze to communicate that he has every intention of coming through Stiles’ window in a few minutes. “I, uh, I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

“Right.” Stiles glances at his grandparents, feeling awkward, then gives Derek a hug. It’s the most awkward hug they’ve ever shared, and when he pulls back, he gives Derek a quick peck on the lips. Then he hastily stifles the fit of giggles he feels coming on.

“What kind of a kiss was that!” Milena sounds scandalized. “I’m your grandmother, not a nun; I won’t be traumatized if you – ”

“Good _night_ , Grandma,” Stiles says, and runs up the stairs. A few moments later, the door to his room shuts, but Derek can still hear him laughing through the wood.

“Well,” Milena sniffs. “I can see that I have a lot of work to do while I’m here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Gwen. How I've missed you. <3

 

Stiles is relieved when he wakes up the next day to see that the weather is nice. He’s feeling edgy enough that he doesn’t want to spend an hour trapped inside Gwen’s small office. She knows him well enough that he’s sure she’ll be waiting at the picnic tables outside.

In the meantime, he goes to school. He needs to leave around nine fifteen to make a ten thirty appointment, so he can go to his first two classes. He cares less about that and more about checking on the pack – or, to be honest, seeing the pack. They’re all in better shape than he is. They spend a few minutes in a tight cluster before the first bell, while he assures them that everything’s okay and they allow him to fuss over them with good grace.

“I’ll be back for the last couple periods,” he says, before heading to his first class. He fidgets and tries to focus through his English class and history. Derek’s presence is, as always, a reassuring bulk pressed against his calf. It’s a relief to get out to the car and drive with the windows down while he drinks a soda.

Gwen is, indeed, waiting at one of the tables, and she gives him a wave as he drops his bag and thumps down on the bench across from her. She rests her arms on the table and asks, “On a scale of ‘one’ to ‘your life when I first met you’, how bad is this?” The format of the question might be amusing, but she clearly wants a real answer.

“Six. No, four. No, I – gahhhhh, I don’t even know.” Stiles scrubs both his hands through his hair. “It’s probably like a three, but it _feels_ higher than that. For reasons that I don’t think I can adequately explain.”

“Okay. Well, at least we’re not above six. I think that means you can take a deep breath. Why don’t you lay it all out for me?” she asks, spreading her hands out as if to illustrate.

Stiles does take a deep breath. “Okay, uh. Grandpa Tom and Grandma Millie. They’re great people. They really are. I haven’t seen them in about two years. We went out for a week’s visit in the summer after I got the pack – it was much smaller then, and a lot less had gone wrong, so it wasn’t so much of a big deal. That was after the whole mess with the alpha pack, but really that had gone pretty well, all things considered. And before the stuff with Stone and Harris, before I started seeing you. They live in Chicago. And I just . . . I can’t have them knowing what’s going on, what I am, what the pack is. They’d freak out.”

Gwen’s quiet for a moment, going over what he said before speaking. “Would they?” She holds up a hand and adds, “I’m not suggesting that you go home and have werewolf show-and-tell. I want you to understand that. This is your family and these are your choices. But I want you to take an honest, rational look at what you think would happen and why you’re so worried. Maybe we can find a workable middle ground that’s less stressful for you to maintain.”

“Uh, honestly, I think we’re already on that middle ground,” Stiles says, “in that they know that we had some trouble and I have PTSD and stuff. Which . . . helps, a little, that I don’t have to hold it all together. It’s just that . . .” He’s quiet, fidgety, for a long moment. “Something always goes wrong. They’re putting themselves in danger just by _being_ here, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to protect them because the pack has to be my priority. And this, this feeling of, of anxious dread, I know it’s partly the PTSD, but it’s partly just my _life_.”

“Okay, these are valid issues,” Gwen says, nodding. “But I don’t think, should something happen, that you have to decide between your pack and your family. You can ask for help. Just like you’re doing right now, from me. You have friends, and people you know, who will step in and offer a hand, don’t you?” She leans her elbows on the table. “Allison’s family. The alpha pack. Dr. Deaton. They’re your friends, Stiles. You and your pack aren’t alone.”

Stiles takes another deep breath, and repeats that to himself. “We’re not alone. Okay. I can, uh, I can work with that.”

Gwen nods again, encouraging but not patronizing, keeping a straight face. She stays quiet for a moment, letting him take the time to internalize what they’ve talked about without interrupting.

“My grandmother is, uh . . .” Stiles trails off and laughs a little. “She’s nosy. And a gossip. In an extremely charming sort of way. She sincerely wants everyone to be happy, but it doesn’t always occur to her that maybe she doesn’t know best. Back when Scott and I were twelve, she helped us try to set up his mom and my dad. You’d think a grown woman would know better. And it’s like . . . she means well. She does. But if she finds out I’m the alpha, that I have a pack, if she finds out all of this is real . . . she’s going to ask me a million questions. She’ll want to know what happened. She’ll want to know _all_ about it. And I can’t . . . I can’t tell her that. Either of them. To them, I’m just, just their little boy. I can’t . . . I can’t tell them I’m a killer.”

Under other circumstances, Gwen might remind him that he shouldn’t use that word about himself, but she shelves it for now. “I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t tell her. You should do what you feel is right for you. If telling her would be upsetting for you, then don’t.”

Stiles nods and fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves. “She just doesn’t let shit go. She’d keep at me with all these questions until I had a freak-out. I mean, she’s already asked me and Derek about a thousand questions about our fake relationship.”

That makes Gwen put on her stern face. “First of all, what you two have is in no way a ‘fake’ relationship. It’s very real. It’s just non-traditional. You shouldn’t let anyone make you think otherwise.” She stops there to see what he and even Derek will do with that before continuing.

Stiles throws his hands in the air, indulging in some of his usual flailing. “Semantics! I meant ‘fake’ as in ‘reality not matching the presentation’.”

“Okay, good,” Gwen says, with some honest relief. “Then explain to me how things have been going. Just so I know what I’m dealing with.”

Stiles gives her a brief summary, ending with, “So I spent most of the evening feeling edgy, and Grandma’s _already said_ like three times how she’s surprised at how many friends I have now, and they want to see Derek’s studio, which is awesome since it’s surrounded by two levels of fencing, and I don’t even know how to deal with the ‘service dog’ issue, and sooner or later one of the pack is going to call me Przemysław and then I’m going to flip my shit.”

“Well, I think some selective truth telling is in order. Tell your pack why they can’t use your birth name. That it honestly bothers you. They care about you, so they’ll stop treating it as a joking matter. You don’t have to share details in order for them to understand.”

“I guess,” Stiles says, fidgeting. “Maybe it’d be easier if it made sense to me. I mean, it makes sense, it’s just . . . stupid.”

“Why is it stupid?”

“It’s just . . . it’s just a _name_. It’s not something that a rational person would get upset about.”

Gwen thinks about telling him that a name is never just a name, even if there are no magical shenanigans going on. In the end she goes with something simpler and potentially more useful in sorting the problem out. “Can you tell me what the actual problem is?”

Stiles stares at the table for a long moment. His gaze flicks to Derek like he’s not sure if he wants his lupa hearing it, and then he lets out a gusty sigh. “It’s just . . . my _mother_ gave me that name. She’s the only one who ever called me by it. Anyone else who says it . . . they would do it _wrong_. It’s just . . . it’s just not okay.” He glances down at Derek again, who looks more thoughtful than bothered. He doesn’t move more than a flick of his ear. He always does his best not to involve himself in Stiles’ sessions unless asked.

“So it’s something special between you and her. It’s okay for you to want to keep that to yourself. I don’t even think that’s particularly unusual.”

“And I could tell the pack, I could, and they wouldn’t laugh,” Stiles says. “They’d just feel . . . sorry for me. Which is worse somehow.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Stiles picks at his cuticles. “She died, like, ten years ago now.”

“Grief has no timeline, Stiles,” Gwen says quietly. “You don’t have to be ready for anything before you’re ready for it. I know we haven’t talked about your mother a lot, but losing her is a huge part of what made you who you are today. You don’t need to rush yourself into anything.”

“Yeah. I guess not.” Stiles wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

Seeing that he probably doesn’t want to continue along that topic, Gwen moves on to one of the other problems he’s mentioned. “Can your father help by talking to your grandmother about her, er, shock over your expanded social circle?”

“He _could_ ,” Stiles says with a snort. “He probably even _would_. But Grandma . . .”

“But Grandma . . .?” Gwen says, encouraging him to continue with his thought.

“Either she’ll say, ‘oh, honey, of course’ and then keep doing it, or she’ll say something about how everyone’s so sensitive these days and she knows her little Przemysław is tougher than that.” Stiles wrinkles his nose. “And she doesn’t do it in a mean way. She just . . . I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of her, because I love her and she’s great in a lot of ways, but . . . uh, I guess she has some annoying habits.”

Gwen takes a minute to roll that around in her head. “Then in the end I would just pretend it’s no big deal and try not to let it bother you. You met a larger population of people in high school and that’s the end of it. As to her nosy pushiness over you and Derek, I might suggest you lay down a truth or two there as well. Just flatly but kindly explain that it’s a non-traditional relationship and you find it a strain to pretend otherwise. She doesn’t need to know any details beyond that. But she’ll keep pushing until you’re firm about setting boundaries.”

Stiles sighs, his shoulders slumping. “I just . . . I want her to think that I’m okay.”

“Having a non-traditional relationship doesn’t make you not okay. And you said that she knows you have PTSD. Does she treat you like you’re fragile?”

“Anything but,” Stiles says, with a snort. “She pushes me more than Dad does. I shudder to think what she would have been like if she had actually been here during the worst of it.”

“Does it bother you? That she treats you that way?”

Stiles thinks about it. “I guess it bothers me less than a lot of the other ways she could treat me. I mean, now that I’m . . . better. Most of the time.”

“You are better,” Gwen says. She sees that he’s about to protest and says, “Better. Not perfect, or maybe even ‘well’, but better is a relative term. And thinking about the kind of shape you were in when you first started coming here, you’re better. And better is better, right?”

“It’s tough to argue with that,” Stiles says. He pushes a hand back through his hair. “I just wish I’d had more time to prepare.”

“Well,” Gwen says, “I think that that’s very much in line with the way you are. You’re a planner. You like to think ahead, have contingencies and exit strategies planned out. You don’t deal well with surprises. Which makes sense, given some of the surprises that you’ve had. There are some things in life that you can’t plan for, and sometimes you have to roll with the punches. But now the surprise is over, so plan. Sit down with your pack and talk strategy. Make a schedule of the next few weeks while your grandparents will be here so you know when you’ll get a chance to see who, and you’ll always have something to look forward to. Talk to your pack about who needs you most and in what ways. Have a structure in place as to who they’re supposed to turn to if you aren’t available. Your pack is large enough now that the older pack members can take care of the newer ones.”

Stiles is nodding along while she talks, and by the end he finds he’s breathing easier. “You don’t . . . think that’s unhealthy?”

Gwen shakes her head a little. “I think it’s a coping mechanism that you’ve developed that makes perfect sense. Now, if you start planning down to the minute where you need to be every day, that would be a little excessive. But a basic schedule is not a tragedy. And it will probably help your pack, too, because seeing you out of sorts is bound to make them edgy.”

“Yeah.” Stiles sighs and pushes his hands through his hair. “Thanks. At least I don’t have anybody _new_ in the pack right now. Mac’s got her feet under herself, and Derek really took her under his wing, which was nice. She’s close with Danny, too. It’s really only Isaac that I’m worried about.”

“I did get your e-mail about his father passing away. How’s he doing?”

“He’s . . . handling it,” Stiles says. “I think he’s more upset than he should be, but I can’t exactly say that to his face.”

Gwen nodded and said gently, “The loyalties of abused children can be very difficult to understand for people who weren’t abused. What you have to remember is that Isaac’s father spent years convincing Isaac that he deserved the abuse. In Isaac’s mind – or at least a large portion of it – his father is blameless in all the things he did, because Isaac ‘drove him to it’. People – especially children – don’t want to believe that their parents are capable of such cruelty, so they find ways to take it on themselves.”

Stiles grimaces a little. “So what do I do?”

“Just let him work it through his system,” Gwen says. “You’re not a trained therapist, and I don’t think you need to get into it too heavily. When he wants to be angry at his dad, let him be angry. When he wants to be sad about his dad’s death, let him be sad. You can’t tell him how to feel, so don’t try.”

“Bleh,” Stiles says, and Gwen laughs a little. “We have to go to his old house after school today to look through his stuff, then we have to figure out what to do about the house, and his dad’s business, and meanwhile, my grandparents want to take me hiking in Mariposa.”

“For all your grandmother’s faults, it sounds like she’s a very kind person,” Gwen says. “I’m sure that if you just tell her plainly that you need to be there for your friend, she’ll happily put off hiking for a few days.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” Stiles says, and then adds, “I guess one advantage to them being here longer is that I’ll have fewer problems escaping their clutches.”

They talk for a little while longer about escape tactics and setting boundaries before Stiles leaves to go back to Beacon Hills. He’ll be in touch by e-mail, he says, but holds off on making another appointment until he knows what his schedule is going to be.

He gets his first opportunity to delegate supernatural happenings on the drive back. He’s letting Derek drive so he can get some reading done, when his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID and sees that it’s Chris Argent. “See?” he says to Derek. “See, this is what I’m talking about! Nobody can leave me alone for two minutes.” He punches the ‘accept’. “Stilinski Taxidermy, you snuff ‘em, we stuff ‘em.”

“Is that a repeat?” Chris asks. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“It’s been a rough day. What’s up?”

“Some of my guys saw some weird lights in the forest last night.”

“All hail the Glow Cloud,” Stiles responds automatically. In the driver’s seat, Derek lets out a snort of amusement and shakes his head.

“I’m not going to ask what that means,” Chris says. “Anyway, we’re going to go check it out tonight. I thought you and a few of your pack might want to join. It’s on the preserve, so it’s your turf.”

“Uh.” Stiles reminds himself firmly of what Gwen had told him. Chris is his ally, even his friend. They’ve traded enough favors back and forth at this point that they’ve stopped keeping score. Not handling this himself isn’t the end of the world. “Pass, actually. And if it turns out to be something, uh, if you could handle it, that would be super. I, uh, I actually have family in town. Grandparents. They’re not in the know.”

“Ah,” Chris says. There’s an awkward silence. “Well, it’s probably nothing. We’ll check it out and keep you posted.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Stiles says goodbye and they hang up. “That was worth at least two gold stars,” he says. “Maybe three.”

Derek gives him a sidelong glance and then rolls his eyes. “You’d better start thinking about what you want for your next prize. You’re going to rack them up pretty quickly while your grandparents are in town, I think.”

“Probably,” Stiles says with a sigh, and goes back to his reading.

He gets back to school just after the lunch period and immediately checks in with Isaac even though he’s not in the same class. Isaac glances up from the doorway of his class and gives a nod and a wan little smile, so Stiles darts over to his Spanish class. He hooks up with Scott and Erica there – not _literally_ , although Erica does offer to give him a handjob in the bathroom because he looks ‘super stressed’ – and manages to get through the rest of the day without incident.

Sheriff Stilinski meets them at the Lahey house, as he has the keys. Derek has changed back to his human form and dressed in the clothes that Stiles perpetually totes around for him. Scott has decided to come, since he and Isaac are close, and where he goes, Allison goes. So Stiles is hopeful that it won’t take very long.

“So . . . what are we doing here?” Scott asks, as they stand in the dingy front hallway. Stiles swallows and tries to push back his claustrophobia.

“I’ve made a few calls,” Tom says. “We can pack up the things that won’t sell for much – his clothes, books, dishes, et cetera – and bring them down to the Good Will. The furniture and any appliances or electronics can be sold at the estate sale, which will be next weekend. Keith recommended a good estate sale planner, and she’ll help put that together. Of course, anything Isaac wants to keep, we box up and bring to the den.”

“There won’t be much,” Isaac says, scuffing the worn linoleum with one toe.

“Okay,” Sheriff Stilinski says, with an encouraging nod. “Isaac, why don’t you focus on looking through the rooms for anything you want. Once you’re done in a room, one of us will pack up what’s left. I’ve brought plenty of boxes.”

Isaac nods and lets out a breath. “No time like the present, huh?” he says. “Uh, one of you might as well start in the kitchen. I can’t think of anything there that I would want.”

“I’ll take the kitchen,” Stiles says, since what the hell, the kitchen is his domain, and maybe he’ll find a neat tool or something. “Unless you want me with you?”

“No, I . . . I’ll be okay.” Isaac forces a smile and then heads for the stairs. Derek and Scott trail after him.

The kitchen, as it turns out, is a complete bust. This doesn’t particularly surprise Stiles, since he knew for a fact that Isaac had done most of the cooking. There are hardly any cooking implements at all. There’s only one pan and two pots, and nothing that Stiles wants. He starts packing up the dishes, which are mostly plastic and therefore don’t require much packing.

He can feel a flare of distress from upstairs and is half on his feet when his phone chimes. He glances down to see a text from Scott. ‘He’s ok, no worries. Just upset that his dad cleared out all his stuff.’

Stiles sighs and texts back his understanding, then gets back to work. Allison and his father are at work in the garage, separating out things that might fetch a price, like the lawnmower and an old gas generator that they found. Isaac comes down from upstairs after only about ten minutes, having found virtually nothing upstairs that he wants to keep. Derek stays upstairs to pack up the belongings in his father’s bedroom; Scott accompanies him to the living room to help look through the books there.

In the end, Isaac takes only two things from his father’s house: his brother’s medals, which he had deliberately left behind when he had left home, and some photo albums from when he was young. Both of those are in the living room, and he carries them out to Stiles’ Jeep himself. Scott and Allison work on packing up anything left.

The elephant in the room looms larger and larger as the day drifts into evening. Finally, Isaac swallows and murmurs, “I’ll check out the basement real quick.”

Stiles can’t think of many things that he finds more horrifying than the Lahey basement, but he isn’t about to let Isaac face this one alone. He gets up and follows along behind him. He motions for Derek and the others to stay upstairs, at least for the time being.

He’s hoping against hope that the damned freezer won’t be there anymore, but it is. Isaac is just standing there, staring at it. Stiles can feel so much tension in him, a combination of rage and guilt and sorrow. For a few minutes, he just stands there, letting Isaac work through it on his own, like Gwen had suggested. The freezer is, if nothing else, an amazing monument to how awful Roger Lahey was.

He hates being in the basement; his skin is crawling as he stands there. But he’s epically grateful to Gwen for all the work they’ve done. A year ago, he knows he couldn’t have managed this, but he can now. He can stand there as long as Isaac needs him to.

Finally, Isaac half-turns and says, “Get me a sledgehammer. And an axe. Do we have an axe?”

“If you want an axe, I’ll get you an axe,” Stiles says. Rather than go up the stairs and leave Isaac alone, he just shouts up, “Do we have an axe or sledgehammer up there anywhere?”

“Let me check,” his father says.

Stiles reaches over and squeezes Isaac’s shoulder. Demolishing the freezer is a great idea for a number of reasons. If nothing else, it’ll be easier to get out of the basement that way.

Derek comes down a minute later, face impassive like usual. He’s carrying a sledgehammer and a crowbar. “No axe,” he reports, “although there is a machete.”

Isaac hefts the sledgehammer. “This’ll do,” he says, and gives it a solid swing. For the next several minutes, he stands there and hits it over and over again. Stiles and Derek stand back to give him space. They don’t offer to help, and he doesn’t ask for it.

Despite approving heartily of what Isaac is doing, Stiles starts to wonder how long he’s going to be at it. He’s starting to feel the claustrophobia, no matter how much work he’s done to deal with it. He feels a little dizzy and nauseous, warmer than he should be, possibly even a little faint. Derek seems to notice. He puts a hand on Stiles’ arm, underneath his elbow, and murmurs, “Why don’t you go upstairs and send Scott down? He might be at this a while.”

Stiles doesn’t really want to, but he reminds himself firmly that everyone and their brother has been telling him that he should let the pack help him handle things. And he’s pretty sure that another two minutes in the basement will drive him out of his mind. He doesn’t want to cut Isaac off from his therapeutic destruction before he’s ready, so he gives a little nod, mumbles some thanks, and makes his escape.

“You don’t look so good,” his father says, when he comes up.

“That fucking _basement_ ,” Stiles says. “Just need some fresh air. Scott, will you – ”

“On it,” Scott says, heading down the stairs. Stiles goes out the front door and sits on the steps, putting his head between his knees and taking deep breaths.

His father comes out a few minutes later and sits down next to him without a word. Stiles glances over at him. “I’m getting _all_ the gold stars this month,” he says, and his father snorts in agreement. “So you’d better get ready for the consequences.”

“Dare I ask what you’re going to exchange them for?” Tom asks dryly.

“You don’t dare,” Stiles says, already thinking of how he’s going to find a way to set up his father and Melissa McCall on a romantic evening, no matter how many favors he has to call in. Sheriff Stilinski shakes his head fondly. “Geez. I still feel a little woozy.”

“You’re doing a lot better, though,” his father says, rubbing his back. “You were down there almost twenty minutes. Time was, you couldn’t have managed two.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and musters up a smile. “And as Gwen reminded me today, better is better.”

“Wise words from a wise woman,” Tom says. “I’m going to start moving some of these boxes to the car. Just stay here until you’re feeling better, and then you can give me a hand.”

Stiles nods. “Okay.”

Isaac comes out of the basement about a half an hour later, sweaty and exhausted and just generally done for the day. Derek and Scott cart the remains of the freezer out to the trash, along with some other garbage that they had found in the basement. Allison and Sheriff Stilinski had already taken one round of things to the Good Will, and now they load up for round two.

Somehow, they get it all done, and head back for the den. Allison has decided to accompany her father on their stakeout, but everyone else is there. They order Chinese food and settle down in the rec room to watch television. Isaac shifts and curls up in Stiles’ lap. Before long, he’s asleep, and Stiles decides that sounds like an excellent idea, and passes out a few minutes later.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles sleeps restlessly that night, and wakes up just past dawn feeling like something’s wrong. Someone is upset. He closes his eyes, pushing away the weariness, and centers himself, reaching down along all the strands of the pack bond, following the distress to its source. Allison. She’s upset, not hurt, but something isn’t right with her. He gets up and picks up his phone out of the previous day’s pants and texts her. It’s too early to call, but he figures she’ll appreciate knowing that he’s up for the day. Then he steps over Derek and heads downstairs to start the coffee maker.

Allison replies a minute later. ‘At the hospital. One of dad’s guys died last night.’

A chill goes down Stiles’ spine. Chris doesn’t keep half-trained idiots around. If someone was killed, whatever they were hunting has to be serious. “Are you fucking kidding me; my grandparents have been here _two days_ ,” he says to the coffee maker. ‘What happened?’ he texts back.

‘Not sure yet,’ she replies. ‘Actually it seems like he had his car backed up too far against a hill and his tailpipe got blocked.’

‘Carbon monoxide poisoning?’ Stiles responds, keeping half an eye on his phone while he roots around in the McCall’s refrigerator.

‘yeah,’ Allison replies.

Stiles pulls out egg and milk, then frowns. ‘Doesn’t seem like one of your dad’s guys. Who was it?’

‘Jim Bennett,’ Allison replies, then adds, ‘African-American, pretty tall, kind of cute. Six or seven years older than us, maybe.’

‘Experienced?’

‘Yeah. Dad doesn’t know what happened, but he doesn’t feel right about it.’

‘you ok?’

‘Yeah. He was a friend, though.’

Since he can’t give her hugs over the phone, he offers the appropriately consoling words and starts making her favorite muffins. When Scott gets up for the day, mumbling about how something feels wrong, he updates him and sends him over to her place. The rest of the pack will have to manage on their own. He has grandparents who want to take him hiking. Derek will stick with Isaac, and the others will be around as needed, depending on their own plans. Derek obviously isn’t thrilled at the idea of leaving Stiles, but he knows that Isaac is feeling down, and Derek’s the best alpha stand-in that he’s got. Stiles asks Isaac at least three times if he’s sure he’ll be okay, and Isaac maintains that he will be.

As expected, his father had told his grandparents that they couldn’t just sleep in their RV for two months, no matter how nice it was, so when he gets back to the house, they’re already there. They’re up, dressed, and breakfasted. “The weather’s gorgeous, let’s go!” Tomasz says. Stiles thinks that his eighty-some-odd year old grandparents are more excited about hiking than he is. It’s somewhat amusing.

But they manage to make a good day out of it, driving up a ways into the mountains and then going on a hike near Mariposa. It takes them out of cell service range, which drives Stiles moderately insane, but he manages. Even so, he can’t resist checking his phone as soon as service comes back. He’s missed no messages. They eat dinner at a local café with great hamburgers before driving back to Beacon Hills. It’s late when they get back, and the house is dark and empty, which makes him twitch. He showers and goes into his room, drooping, exhausted but knowing that he won’t sleep with no one else there.

He’s been tossing and turning in bed for less than ten minutes when there’s a tapping noise at his window. He slides it open to see Derek, and breathes out a sigh of relief. “This is way harder than it should be,” he says, burying his face in Derek’s shoulder.

Derek shakes his head. “It’s pack instinct. It’s not a weakness.”

“Where’s Isaac? How’s he doing? What about Allison, is she okay?”

“She’s upset, but all right,” Derek says, pulling his shirt off and then shucking off his jeans. But he stays in human form as he crawls into bed, so he can keep updating Stiles, who gets in next to him. “Isaac is staying the night at Scott’s, along with Allison, Lydia, and Jake. Erica is at Boyd’s, and Mac’s at Danny’s. I think Isaac’s doing a little better now. It helped that Allison was upset, gave him something to focus on.”

“Any idea about how the guy died? Well, I mean, I know that we know how he died, but . . . how it happened, I mean.”

Derek shakes his head a little. “No. I mean, it doesn’t look suspicious. Just an accident. I guess Allison told her dad that if he thought something strange was going on, to talk to your dad, since you probably wouldn’t have time to handle it.”

Stiles makes a face, then sighs. “Yeah, okay. My grandparents want to do brunch tomorrow. I don’t know what after that. Grandma was talking about going shopping downtown.”

“Maybe a few of us could meet up with you for a while,” Derek says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says. “Ugh. I’d better get some sleep.”

Derek reaches out and rubs a hand over his back. Stiles closes his eyes and rests his cheek on Derek’s collarbone, counting sheep until he finally falls asleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have done considerable research on Polish cooking for this story, but if any mistakes jump out at you, let me. There's only so much we can do with the internet. ^_^

 

Sheriff Stilinski is busy with a string of car thefts that had taken place in one of Beacon Hills’ ritzier neighborhoods when his phone buzzes. He reaches out and absently smacks the intercom button. “Yeah,” he says.

“Sheriff, Chris Argent is here to see you,” Sandy says. “He says it’s not urgent.”

“Sure, show him back,” Tom says. He takes a moment to put together the file he’d been looking through and stands up as Chris comes through the door, dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt, leather jacket only barely concealing the shoulder holster he wears. Open carry is legal in Beacon Hills, but carrying firearms into the police station is not. Chris follows his gaze and opens the jacket to reveal that the holster is empty.

“In my glove compartment,” he says, almost amused.

Sheriff Stilinski resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Along with about twelve other weapons, I’d wager. What did you need?” he asks. He’s honestly curious, because he knows that Chris likes to take care of problems himself.

In fact, the hunter seems uncharacteristically nervous as he sits down in the desk chair across from the sheriff’s. “I wanted to talk to you about Jim Bennett.”

Tom sits back and considers this. Bennett was the young man who had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, he recalls. An unfortunate combination of a little bit of stupidity and a huge truckload of bad luck. “Stiles mentioned that you knew him.”

Chris nods. “He was one of mine. And he was on assignment when he died.”

Sheriff Stilinski thinks about telling him that it’s still entirely possible that the man backed his car into a mound of dirt and asphyxiated, but Chris isn’t stupid and he’s most likely already heard what the ME has to say. So he takes a different approach. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know,” Chris says. “He was on a stake-out. It’s possible, although I’d think it was unlikely, that he didn’t notice how close his tailpipe was to the hill. But he should have noticed when he started having symptoms. My men are trained to stay alert. If they start to feel anything unusual, it could be sorcery, and they’re supposed to radio in. He didn’t.”

“What was he watching for? Anything that could have lulled him so much that he wouldn’t have called?”

“I don’t think so,” Chris says. “There had been some reports of strange lights in the forest. Stiles knows about it. It turned out to be a few salamanders on their way through. They wouldn’t have been able to do anything like that.”

“Sala . . . fire lizards?” Tom asks, just to make sure he understands.

“Yeah. Migrating back north for the summer.” Chris states this as if it’s perfectly normal.

“Of course.” Tom shakes his head. “So something essentially harmless if you don’t poke it with a sharp stick.” He pulls out a pad of paper and jots down a few notes for himself. “Then I guess the first big question is why Bennett didn’t radio it in. I’ll check to see if his radio was even working. Anything else you think I should know?”

Chris taps at the table. “I don’t know when the autopsy is scheduled for, but it might be a good idea to add a tox screen. Him being drugged with something is the most likely explanation I can think of for why he didn’t notice the symptoms or call in for help.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, just from the oddity of him sitting in his car alone at night, that warrants a look.” He’s quiet for a few moments. “How well did you know him? Is it possible he just got careless and fell asleep? Training isn’t worth much if someone doesn’t care to stick with it.”

“He was a decent hunter,” Chris says, “but not experienced. I’d only been working with him for about a year and a half now. So I wouldn’t say it’s impossible. I just . . . want to make sure all avenues are explored, that’s all.”

The sheriff nods, then adds, “I’ll do that.” He wants to be sure that Chris knows he’s not being blown off. “If this was more than tragically bad luck, then he deserves to have it taken care of.”

Chris nods a little. “Oh, and uh . . . it would surprise me if he had fallen asleep, because he usually kept himself pretty caffeinated if he thought it was going to be a late night.” With a slight smile, Chris says, “He’s actually the only person I’ve ever met who drinks as much coffee as Stiles does.”

“And that is impressive.” Tom makes a note to go down to the impound lot and give the car another, more thorough, look after lunch.

“Yeah.” Chris pushes his chair back and stands up. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“I’m curious about one thing,” Sheriff Stilinski says, and Chris gives him a questioning look. “Well, I guess I’m a little surprised you brought this to me. You seem to typically take care of your own business.”

Chris shifts from foot to foot. “There doesn’t seem to be anything supernatural about it,” he says. “So . . . since you’re the sheriff, I figured it would be . . . appropriate to bring it to you rather than trying to do your job for you.”

Tom nods and stands up as well. “I appreciate that,” he says. And he does. It’s a sign of respect, and one that he’s pretty sure Chris Argent wouldn’t have showed him a couple years previous.

Chris offers a hand to shake. “Thanks for your time.”

Sheriff Stilinski reaches over and shakes it. “I’ll keep you posted.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles greets Allison with a hug at school on Monday, and it’s a relief to finally see her in person since he’s only talked to her over text for the last two days. She says she’s all right, just a little upset. “Jim was a good guy, and a good hunter,” she says.

“Well, if there’s anything to find, my dad will find it,” Stiles assures her. He leans in and gives her a kiss on the forehead, which she returns with a watery smile. The moment is broken a moment later when there’s the flash of a camera. “ _Christ_ , Daehler, cut that shit out!” Stiles protests.

“Come on, that was a great shot!” Matt shouts back from the staircase.

Stiles wants to make a smart remark about who exactly is a great shot, but manages to restrain himself. Instead he shakes his head a little as Matt comes down the stairs. He looks at Allison and says, “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Allison says. “Hey, I need to get to class,” she adds to Stiles. “See you later.”

Stiles waves as she starts down the hallway, frowning faintly. He realizes a moment later that Matt is still standing there. “Look, uh,” the other teenager says, “I don’t want to be _that guy_ , you know, I know Allison’s got a boyfriend and everything. So I hope that she doesn’t think I’m a creep or anything.”

A witty retort is on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, but he reminds himself that this guy is Isaac’s friend, sort of, and he’s probably just lonely. Now that he thinks about it, he’s never really seen Matt being friendly with anyone. “Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “She’s just upset today because a friend of her family was killed a few nights ago.”

“Killed?” Matt looks a little surprised. “That’s awful; what happened?”

“Oh, I, uh, I probably shouldn’t really talk about it,” Stiles says. “Open investigation and all that.”

“Right,” Matt says. “Sorry.”

“No big. Hey, actually, if you still want to get a few shots of us for the yearbook, we were going to be out on the field after school this afternoon. You should stop by.”

“Cool,” Matt says. “Thanks.”

Stiles devotes himself to his school work. All joking aside, he wants to keep as up to date on it as possible, because he has a tendency to fall behind when shit goes down. He’s still not sure whether or not shit is going down, or if it is, if it’s of the supernatural variety. He and the guys have a quick game of pick-up lacrosse after school, to burn off some energy and just spend some time together, before he heads home.

They’ve worked out a basic way to do this which is less complicated than it could have been. Since ‘Jack’ has to go to school with Stiles, lest a lot of questions be raised, Derek is still accompanying him. On the way home in the Jeep, he shifts back to his human form and gets dressed. Then Stiles drops him off at the den or one of the other houses before he heads home. That way, he doesn’t have to explain to his grandparents why his boyfriend is with him every single day.

His grandparents are there when he gets home, and he plays checkers with Tomasz while Milena talks nonstop about how nice Beacon Hills has gotten since their last visit. Stiles does his homework with one hand and thanks God for being good at multi-tasking. Milena is cooking, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting dinner ready like he normally does.

“Any news on that guy who died?” he asks his dad when he gets home that evening.

Tom gives him a brief summary of Chris’ concerns, steering clear of anything supernatural, then says, “The tox screen won’t be back until tomorrow, so we really don’t know for now. It does look like an accident, despite what Chris thinks.”

Milena clicks her tongue and says, “You’ll be such a good policeman someday, Przemysław, look at him over there already trying to solve mysteries! Though I suppose you’ve solved them before, mm, like when Tommy was hit by that car a few years ago. Such a nasty incident! I still regret not being able to come out here while you were in the hospital, Tommy, you know I would have if I’d been able but I had just had my hip surgery and the doctor was _very_ firm about not traveling – ”

“It’s fine, Mom,” Tom says. “Stiles has good friends and they took good care of him, and I made a full recovery so all’s well that ends well.”

“I’m still surprised she listened to the doctor,” Tomasz rumbles from his side of the table. Milena raps his knuckles with her spoon.

“Oh, by the way,” Stiles says, wanting to change the subject, “Derek asked me to tell you that instead of taking you to his studio, he’d rather take you to his gallery, if that’s okay. He doesn’t really like people seeing his half-finished stuff and his studio’s always a mess anyway. But the gallery’s real nice, and it’s in San Francisco, so we could maybe make a day of it.”

“That sounds lovely!” Milena says. “He’s such a dear. We could do that this weekend, yes?”

Stiles grimaces and starts mentally reshuffling things in his head, then firmly reminds himself of what Gwen had told him. “Uh, maybe the weekend after? Isaac’s father’s estate sale is this weekend and I think . . . I’m going to want to be here for him, you know, just in case he needs anything.”

“Of course, of course,” Milena says, beaming at her grandson. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Przemysław. I’m surprised you haven’t had the boy move in, now that he’s an orphan.”

“He’s been staying at Scott’s, actually,” Tom says. “They’ve been good friends for years. Stiles, have you talked to Isaac about what he wants to do with his dad’s business?”

Stiles grimaces a little. “Not yet. I’ll ask him about it after school tomorrow.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Things settle into a routine fairly quickly, and it could be worse. Stiles gets up a little early so he has a chance to check in with all the pack members before school. He sees them during the day and then usually hangs out with a couple of them afterwards, small groups so he can make sure everyone gets his attention, while they do their homework in the library. Then he goes home to visit with his grandparents and have dinner with them.

It leaves him a little tense and edgy, and he doesn’t know how long he can keep it up, but it’s better than nothing. He’s watching a movie with Milena when he gets a text from his father and glances down at it. “Dad says he’s gonna be late for dinner,” he says, shifting a little uncomfortably. “He has a DOA downtown.”

“What’s that, dear?” Milena asks.

“Oh, a dead-on-arrival,” Stiles says. “Basically it means someone found a body.”

“Oh, dear,” Milena says. “Well, we can’t ask your father not to do his job, I suppose,” she says, and starts to talk over the movie, telling Stiles all about how his father had wanted to be a police officer ever since he was four years old. Stiles gathers some amusing and embarrassing anecdotes to share with the pack later.

While she’s talking, he texts with his father. ‘Any connection with Chris’ guy who died?’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ his father replies.

Stiles’ thumbs itch to continue texting, but his father gets annoyed when he tries to tell him how to do his job, so he manages to refrain. He’s promised his grandparents that he’ll cook them a traditional Polish dinner on Friday, so for the time being, Milena is content to keep things low-key. Stiles makes some hamburgers and they eat out on the back porch. His father arrives home about half an hour later, and Stiles has to resist the urge to grill him. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. Milena asks, “So what was it, Tommy, was it a murder?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Tom says, dropping into a seat and accepting the plate of hamburgers from his father with a nod of thanks. “Peanut allergy gone wrong.”

“Well, that’s tragic, but better than a murder, I suppose,” Milena says.

“Mm hm,” Tom says, mouth already full. “Otherwise I’d be at the office all night.”

“Two accidental deaths in one week, though?” Stiles can’t help himself. “That’s a little suspicious, isn’t it?”

“People die every day, my boy,” Tomasz says.

Tom sighs and then gives Stiles a slight shake of his head. Stiles hopes it’s a ‘we’ll talk about this later’ shake, not a ‘we’re not going to talk about this at all’ shake, and changes the subject. Isaac has decided he doesn’t want to sell the cemetery’s land or his father’s business, at least for now. They’ve talked about using the money gained at the estate sale and from the sale of the house to hire someone to manage it and do an advertising campaign to drum up some business. That will give Isaac some time to think about whether or not he wants to keep it or sell it.

Tom nods and approves of this plan, and they talk about the estate sale for a little while. Isaac won’t be needed there, so Stiles’ task for the day is mainly to keep him distracted. They eat and play cards and Stiles begs off earlier than he would normally go to bed because he’s sure that Derek is in his bedroom by now. He’s lucky that his door has a lock, as he wouldn’t put it past his grandmother to walk in unannounced.

Derek is there, but he’s in his human form, just in case someone discovered them. “Hey,” Stiles says, flopping onto the bed where Derek is curled up with a book. Derek reaches out and absently tousles his hair, not looking up from what he’s reading. Stiles chuckles a little but doesn’t protest. A few moments later, there’s a knock at his door. “Who is it?” he asks.

“It’s me,” his father says from outside, so Stiles rolls to his feet and lets him in. Tom nods at Derek and shuts the door behind him. “So. Would you care to pepper me with questions now or should I just give you a summary?”

“Just tell me whether or not it was really an accident,” Stiles says.

Tom sighs and sits down in Stiles’ desk chair. “On the surface, yes. The victim was a twenty-six year old mechanic, owned his own business downtown, longtime resident of Beacon Hills. He had a severe peanut allergy. Ordered Chinese food, it had peanut oil, and he dropped dead after one bite.”

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look, Dad . . . I know what you’re going to say. I know that part of PTSD is hypervigilance, and that I’m prone to seeing evil where there might not be any. And maybe that’s all it is. I just . . .”

Tom lifts a hand to stop Stiles. “Two accidental deaths in a regular town would be nothing exciting. But this isn’t a regular town, and trust me, Stiles, I’m well aware of that. Especially given Chris’ concerns about the death of Jim Bennett, I didn’t just give this a surface look. And there are a few inconsistencies.”

“Oh . . .?” Stiles swallows, feeling a shudder go through him.

“Yeah. Namely, that according to the restaurant, there’s no peanut oil in that dish.” Tom shrugs a little. “Mistakes can be made. He didn’t specifically ask for it without peanut oil, but apparently our friend Tucker was something of a connoisseur when it came to take-out. The fridge in his break room was plastered with menus. He had been ordering from this same place at least two or three times a month for years, and he always got the same thing. He knew it was safe for him to eat.”

“Did you talk to the delivery guy?” Derek asks, one hand slowly rubbing up and down Stiles’ spine in a way that helps keep him calm.

“I did. He says business as usual. He got the order direct from the kitchen, put it in Tucker’s hands, got his money, left. So either someone intercepted him and then bribed him not to say anything, or they got to it after it reached Tucker’s.”

Stiles’ fingers start knotting themselves together. “Any cameras?”

Tom shakes his head. “It wasn’t really an upscale place. My guys are dusting the place for prints, which might turn something up. And that’s the other inconsistency. This allergy wasn’t news to Tucker. He had an epi-pen in his desk. It was literally ten feet away from where he died. So was his phone. But he didn’t seem to go for either of those things. And from what I’ve learned, an allergic response is fast, but it isn’t _that_ fast.”

“You think someone stopped him from getting to them,” Derek says. “Or maybe removed them and put them back later.”

“Well, the former is more likely,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “I feel like if he had looked but they had been gone, the place would have been a mess, and it wasn’t. But if he was suffering from anaphylaxis, he would’ve been pretty easy to keep down, I think.”

“Still, nothing about it seems supernatural,” Derek says.

Stilinski nods. “Yeah, nothing that I can see. And it doesn’t seem to be related to Bennett’ death, either. Beyond the fact that they’re both accidents on the surface.”

Stiles glances up. “Well . . . they do have one other thing in common. They’re both cases of suffocation. Different methods, but . . .”

“True enough, I suppose,” Tom says, “Look, kid. I’m looking into it, and if you have any theories, feel free to share, but I know that you have a lot on your plate right now, so try not to worry about it too much if you can. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. “I guess you would have told me if you had found anything weird about Bennett’ death, huh?”

“Nothing to find,” Tom says. “The tox screen was clean. He wasn’t drugged. And there were no fingerprints that weren’t his anywhere in or on his vehicle. The only thing we have to go on there is Chris’ insistence that he wouldn’t have fallen asleep on the job, that he always drank a lot of coffee on a stakeout. Which seems to be true. There was an empty cup in his car and a receipt in his wallet for a triple espresso latte.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip. “What if it was decaf?” he asks.

“Why would it have been decaf?” Tom asks, frowning.

“Why would there have been peanut oil in Tucker’s Chinese food?” Stiles counters. “Is there anything left that we can test?”

“Maybe. The cup would have gone into evidence with everything else. I’ll check into it.” Sheriff Stilinski frowns thoughtfully. “If he fell asleep, it would’ve been easy enough just to tie something over the exhaust pipe, wait for him to die, and then back the car up so the tailpipe was blocked. There were no prints and it could be impossible to prove, but . . . I’ll check that cup.” He stands up and tousles Stiles’ hair. “But you, mind your ps and qs. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says. He feels better having helped, even if it was only a little. And despite the fact that the crimes don’t appear to be supernatural in nature, Beacon Hills is his territory. Nobody would be committing murder on it without his say-so. “But, uh . . . one more thing. What about Isaac’s dad?”

Sheriff Stilinski frowns. “You think he’s involved?”

“I think he could be. I think . . .” Stiles chews on his lower lip. “When we were at the house, after a while in the basement, I started to feel dizzy. Nauseous.” He looks up. “Those are symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“They’re also symptoms of claustrophobia,” Tom points out.

“I know. But carbon monoxide is slightly denser than air. It sinks. It could have gathered in the basement so none of the cops on the scene were affected, especially since they would have been going in and out, probably leaving the door open a lot of the time, et cetera. I don’t know if signs of it would have showed up on an autopsy, especially one that probably wasn’t particularly thorough since foul play wasn’t suspected.”

Stilinski thinks about that for a minute. “It’s possible, I suppose. I’ll check into that, too.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “It’s just, I know he was a raging, abusive asshole, but . . . he was Isaac’s dad. And if he was murdered, I want to know.”

Sheriff Stilinski nods. “Me too.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles practically trips over his own feet when he hears the front door to the house open. Being by himself for the past two hours has been positively spooky. He hadn’t anticipated how bad it would be when he gave Derek the casual, “Yeah, go make sure everyone else gets settled in so I can start cooking dinner.” It’s Friday, which is always a pack night, and they’re all a little tense. But Stiles had offered to cook dinner, and he knows that his grandmother is not someone with whom he can go halfway on the cooking. His traditional Polish dishes might not be anything to write home about, but he’s at least capable. He even makes the cabbage rolls his father hates so much.

Sheriff Stilinski is still at work, and Stiles’ grandparents had decided to spend the day going to a nearby town with good shopping, so that had left Stiles by himself at the house. He can’t even _remember_ the last time he was alone for more than a few minutes. The sensation is completely bizarre. He spent the entire time glancing over his shoulder, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickling, or alternately talking to people who weren’t there. Eventually, he had resorted to putting on a movie with a lot of loud explosions that he could listen to and focus on while he cooked.

So when Derek arrives, he rockets out to the front hallway and throws himself at the other man. Of course, this is not an unusual greeting, but the vehemence with which he does it is a little unusual. Derek lets Stiles climb him and scoops him up like normal, but instead of his usual half-hearted protest about Stiles’ habit of doing so, or moving through the house with a Stiles-shaped drape, he gives him a hug. “You okay?” The feel and scent he’s picking up isn’t exactly what he would call upset, but it isn’t right, either.

“Dude, the last two hours of my life have been _so weird_ ,” Stiles says, hugging back hard. “I think I had honestly forgotten what it was _like_ to be by myself. And not in the shower. Or jerking off.”

Derek gives a snort. “Do you even do that alone anymore? I’m sure Erica has offered to give you a hand.” Despite his words, he isn’t letting go. He remembers when he and Laura had had to get used to being without a pack in New York, and it had been hard.

“Yeah, but sometimes you’ve just gotta rub one out, y’know?” Stiles asks. “Besides, Erica’s not around every time I find myself in those circumstances.” He lets Derek go and heads into the kitchen.

Derek’s eyes roll but he follows, one hand reaching out to snag Stiles’. The closer they get, the more his nose twitches and wrinkles. By the time they get into the kitchen, it’s a full face motion, and he makes a noise like his actual wolf snout ended up full of something that he should have stayed away from. “Is that cabbage and . . . sorry, sorry.” He would never think of insulting the cooking, but he isn’t a fan of cabbage.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Stiles says, somewhat amused despite himself, as he returns to the pile of hard-boiled eggs he was shelling when Derek arrived. “Do me a favor and grab the pot of Pepto-Bismol from the fridge.”

“What?” But upon opening the refrigerator, he is in fact confronted with a pot full of bright pink liquid. He sneezes, twice. “What is that?” he asks, pulling it out.

“Chlodnik,” Stiles says. “Or it will be when I’m done with it.”

Derek puts the pot on the counter with the appropriate amount of care, and then goes to open the windows. “Stiles, I love you with all of my heart, I would die without you. But no.” He shakes his head. “Just leave me some of the hard-boiled eggs.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes dramatically. “You could at least try it, you big baby.”

“You called it Pepto-Bismol. It’s pink. And all I can smell is cabbage.”

“There isn’t even cabbage in the soup,” Stiles says.

“Something you made has it,” Derek says. “It burns.” He rubs his nose, looking slightly ashamed of himself and stubborn. “Do you want help with anything?”

“Nah, I’m almost finished with this,” Stiles says, shelling the last egg and starting to cut them into quarters. “You do realize that if you sit at the dinner table with my grandmother, you _will_ be trying that soup, whether you like it or not, right? ‘You can’t just feed him eggs, Przemysław, he’ll starve! Look at those big muscles of his, he needs a balanced diet!’”

“I ate before I got here? I’m allergic to something? I’m a carnivore? What if I take my shirt off at a crucial moment?”

Stiles gives him a sideways look. “I thought we were aiming to _not_ give her a heart attack.”

“Hey, you suggested it once already. It’s a valid tactic now.”

“Yeah, well, _you_ invited her to your studio, completely forgetting that you hate people seeing your unfinished work and also it’s behind two layers of fencing now.”

“Fuck,” Derek says, at length.

“Yep,” Stiles says. He’s still amused. “So how would you like to be allergic to dairy? There’s sour milk in the soup and butter in the gołąbki.”

“Dairy it is.” He’s quiet for a minute. “How’s this? I wasn’t really thinking – God knows that’s true – and I don’t really like people seeing my unfinished work, so I would take them to see the gallery but it’s in San Francisco, so, uh, oops?”

“Oops indeed.” Stiles points to the fridge again and then dumps the eggs in the pot and starts stirring. “I already told her that and she agreed. Also, there are two BLTs in the fridge. One of them is for you.”

“You’re amazing.” Derek wraps one arm around Stiles in a hug. “Is the other yours or your father’s?”

“Dad’s. He won’t eat this stuff, are you kidding?” Stiles laughs. “He moved to California to get away from his mother’s obsession with borscht.”

“Well, I bet the Polish cooking kept the werewolves away. I wonder if Polish werewolves have a partial immunity to wolfsbane.”

“God, you are such an infant,” Stiles says. “There’s nothing poisonous in the soup. It’s only pink because it uses beets as a base. I think it’s tasty, and I hardly ever get the opportunity to make it.”

“I’m allowed to be a baby on occasion. But you could try making it for Mac.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says, then glances up as the front door opens again. He hears his father call out a greeting from the hall, and then his grandparents come into the kitchen.

“Przemysław, it smells wonderful!” Milena says, pulling him into an embrace. “You’ve really gotten so much better at cooking!”

“Just wait until you’ve had his baking,” Derek remarks.

“Did you make anything for dessert?” Milena asks, perking up. “Oh, we should make piernik, you always liked that!”

“Yeah, good idea, Grandma,” Stiles says. He gives Derek a sideways smile and says, “I’m teaching Derek how to appreciate Polish cooking. He’ll _love_ piernik.”

“It’s a little slow going,” Derek admits. Then he braces himself internally and gives Stiles a smile that has a little bit more tooth than would be acceptable outside a pack. Still, he’ll accept his punishment and accept the challenge. “But sure, I’ll at least _try_ it.”

“Well, we don’t have to make piernik,” Milena says. “We could make paczki, or makowiec . . .”

“No, we should definitely make piernik,” Stiles says.

Tomasz looks between his grandson and Derek, then in an effort to defuse the situation, he says, “Don’t be mean to the boy, Przemysław, not everyone likes gingerbread, especially the way your grandmother makes it . . .”

Derek perks up. But then he eyes Stiles. After a moment, he shifts his gaze to Tomasz, who’s clearly the safest source in the room. But somehow, he doesn’t think that asking the older man questions will be within the parameters of the game Stiles is playing with him. So he looks back to Stiles and says, “Is it anything like the cookies?”

“You know how sometimes, I make the cookies _extra_ spicy, and nobody likes them except you?” Stiles says, amused. “That’s Grandma’s recipe.”

Derek turns to Milena. “That recipe is amazing,” he says, with as much sincerity as he can muster without venturing on to his ‘serial killer smile’.

“Ah, such a flatterer!” Milena says, beaming at him. “Oh, Przemysław, you’ve made all my favorites, you’re such a good boy!”

Tomasz peers into the pot and then beams. “Extra eggs, just the way I like it.”

“Hey, we all need our protein,” Stiles says, then adds to his father, who’s been hovering in the background trying not to look like he’s in immense amounts of pain, “there’s a sandwich for you in the fridge.”

Derek mouths ‘bacon’ at Sheriff Stilinski, who smiles at his son. “You’re a good kid.”

“Tommy,” Milena protests, “come now, your son has cooked a nice traditional meal, you can’t just have a _sandwich_ – ”

“Yes, Mom, I can,” Tom says, folding his arms over his chest. “Because I’m sure that Stiles made that sandwich with just as much attention and most likely a surprisingly small amount of fat.”

“He won’t be alone,” Stiles says. “Derek’s allergic to dairy so he can’t eat the soup either.”

“Oh, how terrible!” Milena says. Then she blinks and says, “Oh, but then, I suppose you won’t be able to have the gingerbread either . . .”

Derek’s eyes widen. Then he turns and looks at Stiles, his expression one of woe and pleading.

Stiles, trying not to laugh, says, “It’s okay, Grandma, we can use butter-flavored shortening.”

“That sounds like an abomination,” Milena says, wrinkling her nose.

“You won’t taste the difference, I promise.”

“That’s even worse!”

Since Sheriff Stilinski is just standing there trying not to laugh, Tomasz intervenes. “Come on, now, at least let the boy try it. And let’s have dinner, why are we still standing around here when there’s food to be had, hm?”

Without really thinking about, Derek looks at Stiles for direction. As both the alpha and the person who does most of the denning, he’s in charge of any meal that they eat as a group, so it’s an instinct by now. Stiles gets final say as to whether or not it’s time to eat.

“Yeah, Derek, help me set the table,” Stiles says, taking a stack of bowls and plates out of the cupboard. Derek lets Stiles pass these things off to him and carries them out towards the table without another word of direction.

Tom watches them, amused at how they appear to be such a normal couple, but if you know what to look for, you can see the wolves in them. He’s positive that once they sit down, Derek won’t take a bite until Stiles does. He doesn’t see it as much in the other kids, but then they didn’t grow up as werewolves in a pack. He doesn’t think Derek is even aware of his own behavior.

It takes a few minutes to get everyone settled down at the table with either their soup or their sandwiches, and then Milena has to gush over the food for several minutes while Stiles blushes and tries to fend her off. “So, you two,” she says, gesturing to them, “Przemysław, your father tells me that you’re heading to San Jose State next year. Couldn’t you get into somewhere more exciting?”

Stiles fends this off with the ease of someone who has answered the question a hundred times already. “San Jose State has a great criminal justice program,” he says. “And I got a good scholarship there.”

Plus it’s a stone’s throw away from Palo Alto, where Stanford is, and the various colleges and universities in San Francisco that the rest of the pack has decided to go to, but neither Derek nor Tom mentions that. Personally, Derek is glad that Stiles decided against going to some Ivy League or otherwise incredibly demanding school. He doesn’t think Stiles needs that stress on top of the rest of the things that always seem to happen to them on the supernatural side of their lives.

“And what about you, Derek?” Milena asks. “Are you going to pine for him terribly when he’s away in the city? I certainly hope so.”

Derek shakes his head a little. “We’re looking for places to rent together.”

Milena’s eyes go wide. “My, this is serious, isn’t it!” she says, fanning herself.

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles says, not sure what else to say.

Derek gives Stiles a shifty look. “Oops?” His tone says he’s thinking that maybe he should apologize, but he isn’t about to.

“No, I think it’s wonderful!” Milena says, reaching out and patting Derek’s hand. “I married Tomasz when I was eighteen. Oh, and I know that your careers are very important to you, as they should be, and I suppose that I’m old-fashioned, but I just think too many people focus _only_ on their careers and ignore the wonderful things that are happening around them.”

“Mom, stop embarrassing them,” Tom says firmly.

“I don’t think missing out is going to be a problem,” Derek says.

“Oh, and that reminds me!” Milena says. “Stiles says that we can go see your gallery next weekend, it’s so nice of you to let us visit. Your paintings are so lovely,” she adds. “I looked you up on the Google.”

Stiles chokes on a mouthful of egg.

Derek makes a funny little noise that means that he’s trying to hide a laugh. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“Kids these days think us old fogeys can’t be tech-savvy,” Tomasz says, nodding wisely. “Millie’s really gotten into all this internet stuff.”

“I can see that,” Stiles manages.

Derek doesn’t think it would be polite to correct them about ‘the Google’ so instead he asks, “What about you? Or do you just leave it to her?”

“Oh, I’m fair enough at it, but Millie yells at me if I check our e-mail.”

“That’s because you read things and don’t tell me about them, but then they’re marked as read so I don’t read them myself – ”

“And whenever I do updates she pitches a fit – ”

“Why do they always change things?” Milena asks, appealing to the ceiling.

“Actually, I kind of agree with her there,” Tom remarks from his side of the table.

“Because Explorer is the devil?” Derek suggests.

“Pssh, who uses Explorer?” Milena asks.

“I do,” Tom remarks.

“Ugh, Tommy, I thought we raised you better than that.”

Stiles has to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Derek covers his face with both hands and makes more of those funny little noises. “I’m okay.”

“Clearly,” Stiles says, smirking at him.

“In any case, there are so many lovely things to do in San Francisco, I’m sure we can all spend a day there without being bored, I would go there all the time if I lived here,” Milena remarks cheerfully. Without missing a beat, she says, “I hope that you two haven’t encountered a lot of prejudice here. I know small towns can be full of bigots. San Francisco will be a lovely city for the two of you!”

“We actually haven’t had a lot of problems here.” At least not about their gender. A few about the age difference or Derek’s reputation, but that was really all.

“Just remember, if anyone gives you trouble, it’s probably just because they’re jealous,” Milena says.

Stiles gives a snort of laughter. “I’ll remember that, Grandma.”

“Uh huh. Jealous.” Derek seems amused, but skeptical.

“Well, who wouldn’t be!” Milena says. “Look in a mirror, son, you score about ten on the tall, dark, and handsome scale, plus being an artist is terribly romantic, and you seem very sweet, too, and of course we all know what a catch Przemysław is, don’t we!”

“Grandma,” Stiles whines.

“Oh Jesus,” Derek says. “I surrender.”

Milena just laughs merrily, but Tomasz intervenes and starts asking harmless questions about lacrosse and cross country, and the kind of work that Tom has been doing, and lots of things that aren’t Derek and Stiles’ relationship. This keeps going until the food has been finished for at least half an hour. Stiles is stirring restlessly. He’s had his Adderall, but he’s still not good at sitting still for long periods of time.

“Still so fidgety, Przemysław!” Milena says. “Well, go on, us old folks could sit here all night but there’s no need for you to sit around.”

Derek darts a glance at Stiles and tries not to twitch. He isn’t sure if they should run while they have the chance or offer to stay because that’s polite. Stiles doesn’t seem sure either. “Are you sure, Grandma? I don’t mind – ”

“Go, go!” Tomasz says. “We’ll be in town for a while. It’s a Friday night, you should be off with your friends, having fun. Scoot!”

Derek looks between the two of them, hearing their steady heartbeats, and thinks about how much a simple evening with the pack will help Stiles right now. He turns to him and says, “We can still catch up with the others before they start the movie, I think.” Even if they couldn’t, it wouldn’t matter, but it’s a normal thing to say and a way to encourage Stiles.

The teenager just sits there for a few moments before abruptly pushing back from his chair and saying, “You guys are the greatest.” He leans over and gives his grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t wait up!”

“Have fun!” Milena says. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!”

“That doesn’t really limit them, kochanie,” Tomasz remarks in a tone of fond amusement.

Derek looks for a moment like he might say something, but then he changes his mind. “I’m just gonna . . .” he says, and follows Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t speak again until they’re in the Jeep. “They’re pretty cool,” he says, “you know, for party-crashing grandparents.”

“Just as long as your grandmother stops _describing_ me,” Derek says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never watched any of season 3B, so everything I know about Rafael McCall is from his brief appearances in 3A and a few things I read on tumblr. I may have taken some liberties. =D

 

The mechanic’s death is officially labeled a homicide that Monday, and tests from Jim Bennett’s coffee cup shows that it did in fact have decaf substituted for regular coffee. Sheriff Stilinski interviews the coffee shop’s employees, who state that Jim was a frequent customer and always got the same thing if he came in late at night. None of them have any motive, and none of them have any sort of connection to the mechanic.

Similarly, Jim Bennett and Tucker Malone don’t seem to have much of a connection either, beyond the fact that they were the same age and therefore in the same class at Beacon Hills several years previous. Malone had a girlfriend and if his Yelp reviews were anything to go by, a number of disgruntled customers. Bennett had no such enemies.

Stiles tries not to stress over it too much, which is made easier by the fact that his attention is already being pulled in fifteen different directions at once. Isaac is second-guessing everything that’s been happening with his father’s estate, the teachers are piling tons of work on him, lacrosse is in full swing. Whoever the killer is, he doesn’t seem to be a threat to Stiles or his pack, so beyond staying alert, there isn’t much they can do. Stiles is nervous enough to institute the buddy system, but it’s unnecessary. They’re all sticking together anyway.

So he’s anxious as hell when he gets home on a Thursday, does all of his homework, and then finds that his father has packed the grandparents off to a restaurant for dinner. “Tommy wants us to have a nice romantic evening, isn’t that sweet of him?” Milena asks, asking Stiles to do the top button on the back of her dress.

“More like, Dad saw that I was making tacos and didn’t want to deal with the culture clash,” Stiles jokes, and Milena laughs as Tomasz whisks her out of the house.

Stiles gets the food on the table and plops down across from his father while Derek takes the seat beside him. “Okay. Spill.”

Tom gives a little sigh, as if to indicate that he should have known that Stiles wouldn’t be fooled. “There was a buildup of carbon monoxide in Lahey’s basement. Now, it’s not high enough to be lethal or even toxic at this point, but it’s had weeks to dissipate. There was an old gas generator in the garage. Now, if someone turned it on, filled the house with carbon monoxide, and waited for Lahey to die, they put everything back when they were done. But that seems to be the typical MO of the killer. It’s another one that we can’t prove, but in context it’s highly suspicious.”

“Damn,” Stiles breathes out. “Damn.”

“We’ll find this guy,” Tom says. “I want you to concentrate on school, your pack, and keeping your grandparents entertained. I’m going to be working a lot of late nights for a while. Now that it’s officially a serial killer, or at least a suspected one, this is going to get a lot more serious. I’ve heard from the higher-ups that they’re thinking about sending one of their FBI guys to, how do they put it? ‘Assist’.”

“Great,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Well, on the upside, at least it isn’t supernatural. So Joe FBI can ‘assist’ all he wants.”

“What could Lahey possibly have in common with those two, though?” Derek asks, frowning.

“So far there’s no connection,” Tom says. “And now I’ve got to go through the autopsy report for everyone who died of an accident or illness in the last six months and make sure there aren’t any more victims that we didn’t realize. So the field is pretty open. If Lahey turns out to be the first victim . . .”

Tom hesitates, and Stiles tenses. “What?”

“I’ll have to interview Isaac, officially,” Tom says. “I know he didn’t do it. But serial killers often start with someone they’re related to, discover that it’s a rush, and continue on from there with random victims. Given Isaac’s relationship with his father, it’ll be important to establish that I talked to him. Especially if Joe Agent is going to show up.”

“Isaac’s gonna love that,” Derek says.

“It’s procedure,” the sheriff says. “There isn’t much I can do about it. I’ll make Carmichael take it easy on him. I can’t do it myself, not given that we practically adopted him.”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t know how to break the news to Isaac, but he decides to do it in relative privacy. Rather than do it at the den, while everyone’s there, he waits until Isaac and Scott have gone back to the McCall house for the night. Then he goes over with Derek. The two teenagers are on the sofa playing Resident Evil when he arrives. “Hey!” Scott says, grinning over at them. “I didn’t know we’d be seeing you tonight.”

“I snuck out,” Stiles says. He sits down on the coffee table across from them as Scott pauses the game. Derek sits down on the sofa so his knees are touching Stiles’. “I’ve been helping my dad out on these accidental-murders.”

“Oh, yeah, did they figure out whether or not Allison’s friend had been involved?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He takes a breath and decides to just put it out there. “And there’s another that’s been added to the list. Isaac, they think – we think – your dad was murdered.”

Isaac blinks at him and slowly sits up, putting his elbows on his knees. “What – why? How?”

“Carbon monoxide,” Stiles says. “I asked my dad to look into it. Because he was middle-aged and not very healthy, it got overlooked on the autopsy, but there was carbon monoxide in the house. We can’t say for certain. We may never know, for that matter. But . . . it fits the pattern.”

Isaac’s face is just blank for a minute. Then he shakes his head a little. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this.”

“You’re not required to feel anything,” Derek tells him.

Scott is frowning. “Mr. Lahey’s not really like either of the other victims, though, is he? I mean, they were both in their twenties.”

“Yeah, but we still don’t know anything about this guy’s motive,” Stiles says. “There’s way too many pieces we’re missing.” He reaches out and squeezes Isaac’s shoulder. “But we’ll figure it out. You know, my dad’s on the case. Just so you know, though . . . they’re probably going to have to question you. It won’t be a big deal.”

Isaac nods a little. “That’ll be, uh, fun.” He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, and changes the subject. “Oh, I’m kinda glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you about this thing that Matt wants to do for the yearbook. He wanted to know if he could come over next time the pack was hanging out and take some pictures of us. He wants to do a spread of the pack, basically.”

“Uh . . . why?” Stiles asks, frowning. The athletics teams get their own spread, as well as some of the academic clubs or societies, but this sounds different.

“Look, you’ve gotta give the kids at the high school _some_ credit,” Scott says. “They know that weird shit happens and that we’re usually involved and sometimes we’ve probably saved their asses and stuff.”

Stiles perks up. “Is this going to be like season three of Buffy? Am I going to get a class protector award?”

Scott laughs. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if you did.”

“Anyway,” Isaac says, “Matt’s point was that, people who didn’t know what it was would assume it was just some candid shots of a group of friends. But to people who _did_ realize what it meant, it would be nice. You know . . . meaningful. To have that in there.”

Stiles thinks about it for a minute. “Yeah, okay, I don’t see why not,” he says. “A couple caveats. No labels, nothing to indicate what the spread is of. I get final veto on anything that’s going in. And we’re going to do it at my dad’s place or here, not at the den.”

“I think he should be okay with all that,” Isaac says. “Thanks. It means a lot to him. He’s really into this whole yearbook thing.”

“No problem.” Stiles stifles a yawn and takes out his phone to look at their ‘schedule’. Friday nights are still pack nights, but he’s sure that his grandmother will have some plans for dinner. “Maybe next Friday after school, before I have to go home and visit.”

“Okay, I’ll ask him,” Isaac says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Gorgeous early spring days should not, in Stiles’ opinion, be used for housework. Sometimes, however, he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. He can’t just let Scott be sentenced to an entire day of housework by himself (even if he possibly deserves it for having put off his chores for so long). He recruits help, and somehow talks Stiles into bringing Derek over. Isaac is helping out, of course, because Isaac always helps out. Stiles’ grandparents decided to take a day trip to a nearby lake, although they said they would be back for dinner.

So Stiles is cleaning up in the kitchen while the casserole he’s making for Melissa bakes, and Allison is doing the laundry while Scott and Isaac do yard work in the back. Derek’s spurns regular chores, but he’s fixed the uneven step on the staircase and oiled the hinges of the bathroom door that squeaks and changed out the lightbulbs that nobody can reach without a ladder. It’s turned into something of a game, to see how nice they can make the house before Melissa gets home from her double shift. Stiles likes to cook for Melissa, and they eat at the McCall household once a week anyway, but she works a lot, so having portable, healthy food is good for her.

He’s just taken the casserole out of the oven and slid in a tray of muffins when the doorbell rings. “Just a sec!” he calls, giving the counter a quick wipe down and checking to make sure all werewolves are currently wearing clothes. They are, so he jogs over to the front door and opens it. The man standing there is tall, even taller than Derek, and has dark hair and a face that’s friendly and open, a face that makes Stiles immediately want to spit and hiss and snarl. “What are _you_ doing here?”

The man sighs. “I don’t suppose – ”

“No,” Stiles interrupts, and he hears Derek approach behind him, slow and soft-footed, like he knows Stiles is facing someone he considers an enemy. “I don’t. Ms. McCall isn’t home and Scott has no time for your bullshit.”

“I’m actually looking for Isaac Lahey,” the man says.

This takes Stiles somewhat aback. “Why?” he asks warily.

The man’s expression shifts slightly and somehow becomes condescending. “I don’t know that it’s actually any of your business, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Is that so?” Stiles asks. “Because from where I’m standing, the only possible reason you could be looking for Isaac is because you want to ask him questions about his father’s death, and I’m thinking that Isaac doesn’t really want to talk to you about it. Have you talked to my dad? Does he know you’re here?”

“Oh, I didn’t feel the need to bother such a busy man when I could get right to work,” he says, although the tone in his voice makes it clear that he just didn’t thinking speaking to the sheriff was worth his time. At this point, both Allison and Derek have approached the door from either side, keeping themselves out of sight. They exchange a look across the hallway, and Allison eases into a better position to attack from while Derek makes himself known. He comes to stand casually at Stiles’ shoulder and looks the intruder up and down blatantly, then raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

The man sees him and almost immediately redirects his attention over Stiles’ shoulder, seeing an adult who would almost certainly be more reasonable than the recalcitrant teenager. “Agent McCall, FBI,” he says, holding out a hand. “You are . . .?”

“Curious as to why you haven’t spoken to Sheriff Stilinski,” Derek replies. His eyebrows turn from inquisitive to judging, but he glances at Stiles in some confusion at the name.

“Oh, geez, where are my manners, I haven’t introduced you,” Stiles says, with a dramatic eye roll. “Agent McCall, this is Derek Hale, my boyfriend.” He drops the word casually, but they see his eyes narrow a little. “Derek, this is Agent McCall, and you know, I never really figured out why Melissa still uses this jerk’s last name. If I were her, I would’ve gone back to my maiden name the day after I booted his worthless ass out.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause while Derek looks him over again. “Why are you here again?”

McCall sighs. “I’d like to talk to Isaac.”

“Well, you’re not going to,” Stiles says bluntly. “Try putting in an official request to conduct an interview with him down at the station the way you’re supposed to, and see where that takes you.”

McCall lets out another sigh and rubs at the skin between his eyebrows like he’s tired. “Come on, Stiles. If he isn’t guilty of anything, then there’s no reason to make this official or drawn out or messy. Just go get him so I can ask _him_ if he’s willing to talk to me.”

“Nice try, but no,” Derek says, his eyebrows coming down. “You’re not speaking to Isaac without official documentation and his lawyer present.”

“So he is here,” McCall says.

Stiles’ mouth tightens into a thin line. “Funny how you seemed to know that he’d be here. Who’ve you been talking to?”

“I asked the school for his emergency contact information when it became clear that he hadn’t been living at home,” McCall says.

“And they just gave it to you?” Stiles asks.

“Well, whether you prefer to acknowledge it or not, I _am_ an FBI agent,” McCall says.

Derek shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter if he’s here or not. I’d say the same thing either way.” Then he turns to Stiles with a fake look of surprise. “Stiles, isn’t Isaac’s other emergency contact your father? The sheriff?”

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Gee, Agent McCall, maybe you should go talk to him.”

McCall sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I just hoped I wouldn’t have to bother him. I know he doesn’t always respond to stress well.”

“You son of a – ” Stiles gets hold of himself just in time, but his voice is trembling from rage as he says, “I’d like to ask you to leave now. Don’t come back without a warrant.”

Now McCall smiles. “I’m afraid that’s not really your choice either. This isn’t your home. I’d also like to speak to my son, and I _do_ have the right to that without a warrant. And I know that if you’re here, Scott’s here.” He takes a step towards the door.

Stiles puts up an arm to block his way. He holds the man’s gaze, but says, “Derek, go get Scott. Tell him Agent Douchebag is here to see him.”

Derek gives McCall a baleful look, puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder for just a second, and then disappears into the house. Allison stays where she is, although it doesn’t look like physical danger is going to be a problem. Better safe than sorry. A couple minutes later, Derek returns with Scott, who hasn’t looked this belligerent since Derek was trying to be his alpha. Derek is starting to understand his attitude a lot better. He’s wearing only a pair of jeans, in deference to the nice weather and manual labor, making his musculature quite obvious.

Equally obvious is McCall’s surprise to the way his son has grown up. He hides it well, but his eyes widen momentarily, and they can all hear the way his heartbeat elevates. But he offers Scott a friendly, open smile, and says, “Hey, Scott.”

Scott smiles back. It’s bright, cheerful, and entirely fake. “Hi, Dad.” He takes the door from Stiles’ hand and swings it closed in his father’s face.

Stiles looks at Scott. “I love you, man.”

“Love you too, bro.” Scott frowns at the door. “The FBI had to send _him_. Jesus.”

“He knows the locals,” Stiles says. Allison slips out from her position in the doorway and wraps an arm around Scott’s waist. “I’d better go call my dad, be right back,” he adds, and darts back into the kitchen. He checks the timer on the muffins, sees that they still have plenty of time left, and dials his father. He picks up a moment later. “Hey, Dad, did you know that Scott’s dad is in town?”

“The FBI sent _that_ asshole?” Stilinski says. Then he back tracks. “Wait, why do you know that he’s here and I didn’t?” Concern creeps into his tone. “Did he bother you kids at the house? Is everyone all right?”

“Yeah, he showed up at Scott’s place, tried to weasel his way in to talk to Isaac. You know, just an informal, friendly chat.” Stiles sounds just as disgusted as he feels. “We told him to go file an official request. He insisted on seeing Scott; Scott slammed the door in his face.”

“Good for Scott. And what was his excuse for not stopping at the station and speaking to me first? It must’ve been good.”

Stiles tries to keep the anger out of his voice and skips over McCall’s second half of the explanation. “He didn’t want to bother a busy man.”

“Uh huh.” Stilinski doesn’t seem fooled by either McCall or Stiles. “What else did he say?”

“Just a lot of bullshit,” Stiles says. “I’ve gotta go. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“When you’re all done at Melissa’s for the day, do you have any other plans, or can you head back to Derek’s where he’ll have to have a warrant to cross that fence?”

“Yeah, we’ll head back to Derek’s. I’ll text the others. You should come too – fuck, no, _grandparents_ , arg, why is this my life – ”

“When I get off shift, I’ll call you, and you can come back to the house. We’ll have dinner together. Everyone else can stay safe and sound at Derek’s. Now take a deep breath, son.”

Stiles forces himself to inhale deeply, then exhale. “Yeah. Okay. I just – _that guy_.”

“Yeah, I remember him. I remember the party we threw when he left. We can throw another and this time we can invite Scott and his mom.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, and manages a chuckle. He says goodbye and heads back out to the other room. Scott’s just getting off the phone with his mother, storm clouds on his expression. “You okay?” Stiles asks him.

“Mom’s not happy and she’s throwing around terms like ‘restraining order’ and ‘pepper spray’, and I think there might have been something in there about Ex-Lax and coffee.” Scott puts his hands up in surrender. “Sometimes I’ve learned just to not ask. But she just really doesn’t want to see him again, you know?”

“Yeah, my dad didn’t sound thrilled with the concept, either,” Stiles says, with a sigh. “I suppose we should go tell Isaac about it. He’s probably wondering what the fuck we’re all doing in here.”

Allison hangs up her phone and shoves it in her back pocket before moving to wrap an arm around Scott’s waist. “I can totally see why you can’t stand him.”

Scott nods and starts moving to the back door. “It’s not that he’s a jackass – well, it _is_ – but that he thinks he can just . . . gloss on by and if he’s polite enough about it or smiles enough, everyone has to let him get away with it.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but then just shakes his head and goes to grab a pitcher of lemonade and some plastic cups from the kitchen. He’s grown used to being a respected figure, even an authority, in his own world. He has none of that with Agent McCall, and furthermore, he has absolutely no power over the man, nothing he can do about the agent’s presence besides make sure he toes the line. It makes him feel small and insignificant, which is a feeling he absolutely detests. But at the moment, he’s pretty sure that Scott is feeling worse than he is, and Isaac is about to be, so it’s best if he keeps all of that to himself, although he can feel Derek tense behind him. He pushes open the back door and looks around to see Isaac still spreading mulch. “Hey, Isaac,” he shouts, waving him over. “Lemonade break.”

Isaac dusts his hands off carefully, because werewolf or not, splinters are no fun, and heads over. He pauses to grab a cup of lemonade from Stiles, gulps it down, and gets a refill. “So who exactly is Agent Douchebag and why do we hate him?”

“Relevantly, he’s an FBI agent who was apparently assigned to look into the murders here and wanted to question you about your father,” Stiles says, “which you will _not_ be doing until he puts in a formal request because we’re not going to start this investigation off by letting him think that he can break any rule he wants.”

Isaac takes this with relative calm. “That wouldn’t have pissed you off so much. You respect law enforcement. Even when they’re in your way, you still respect that they’re trying to do their jobs.”

“He, uh,” Scott says, rubbing at his hair, “he also happens to be my jerkwad of a dad.”

“So you won’t be talking to him without a lawyer,” Derek adds, “because he’s already proven that he’s not trustworthy at all.”

“Awesome,” Isaac replies flatly.

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Let’s finish up here,” he says. “Then we can go back to the den, where the jerkwad can’t bother us. Derek, can you e-mail Keith – I mean, it’s not like Isaac has anything to hide, but let’s get a recommendation for someone local who can coach him through this. Allison, I’ll finish up the laundry. You stay with Scott.” He means more for emotional support than anything else, although he sees Allison’s hand twitch towards the ring dagger she keeps in a thigh sheath.

Scott reaches out and twines his fingers through Allison’s, while Isaac just takes a few sips of his lemonade while Derek pulls out his phone. Eventually, Isaac asks, “Is he actually going to do his job or is this going to be all about making us miserable?”

“Oh, he’ll do his job,” Stiles says. “He’ll do the _hell_ out of his job, because if nothing else, we can rely on the fact that he’ll want to show my dad up and solve a murder case that he couldn’t solve. Now, whether him doing his job will actually get him anywhere near solving the case, that I can’t say. I’m not actually able to judge his FBI-agent-ing skills. I was only . . . what, eleven, when he left?” he adds, shooting a glance towards Scott to confirm. Scott nods.

“So this is more about making us miserable than finding the person that actually murdered my father,” Isaac says. “Great.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “We don’t need Agent Douchebag for that. My dad and I are on that case, remember?”

Isaac leans into his touch. “No, no, I know.” And it’s obvious that he believes every word of it. “It’s just that if someone has to be here sticking their nose into things, I figure they should be trying and not making things harder. It’s my _dad’s murder_ , not Ms. McCall’s ex’s ego problem.”

“Yep.” Stiles pushes both hands through his hair, leaving lopsided spikes in its wake. “Welcome to life with Agent Rafael McCall.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

 

Derek follows Stiles back into the house, where he heads back into the kitchen and starts loading the dishwasher. “I know chores aren’t your typical bag, but if you could do the vacuuming while I finish cleaning up the kitchen and doing that last load of laundry, we can get out of here a little quicker,” he says to Derek.

Derek starts helping him load. Just because it isn’t his preferred activity doesn’t mean he can’t or won’t do it. “Sure. Just as soon as you tell me what’s got you so turned inside out.” He figures he’ll give Stiles a chance before he starts pulling everything McCall said apart.

“For starters?” Stiles slaps a cup into the dishwasher. “That we’ve spent the last four hours to give Melissa a nice surprise when she gets home from work, and now she’ll be so preoccupied with Douchebag Supreme that she won’t care.”

“Okay. That’s number one.” He doesn’t argue with the probable truth of it. “And number two?”

Stiles’ voice is clipped and short. “I don’t want him anywhere near my dad.”

“Okay. He’s an asshole and we don’t want him around. At all. But your dad is a capable, competent person, so I’d give him way more points for being able to handle himself than this guy. So what’s the deal?”

Stiles sighs. “You’re not going to let this go, are you,” he says.

“No. Because you’re about to snap bones, you’re so tense.” He gives Stiles a look that’s serious but almost soft, somehow. “You’d do the same for me.”

“True,” Stiles says. He turns to take the muffins out of the oven so he won’t have to look at Derek. “After my mom died, when I was eight, my dad . . . drank a lot. More than he should have.”

“Okay,” Derek says, more to show that he’s listening than to offer an opinion on the subject. “His wife had just died. I’m sure he was upset. Obviously.” It seems clear to Derek that anyone would lose their grip for a little while. He would die without Stiles, literally. Drinking too much doesn’t seem that bad in comparison.

“Yeah. And I was just a kid, you know, I tried to take care of him, and the people down at the station helped out, and Ms. McCall . . . but that . . . that _asshole_ just wouldn’t let it go. Every time Scott came over, he was like, ‘I hope you haven’t been drinking’ even if it was _obvious_ that my dad was stone sober, or like, I would come over upset about something, usually like the state of the cartoons on Nickolodeon and he would immediately be like, ‘how’s your dad doing’, like . . .” Stiles has to swallow hard, his hands gripping down on the edge of the counter. “Like it was always his fault that I wasn’t okay.”

“Instead of the fact that you had lost your mother recently and the damned ice melting in your drink too fast can set you off?” Derek asks, because he knows that feeling all too well.

“Yeah.” Stiles grabs a washcloth and begins to scrub down the counters. “So then he started trying to say that Scott couldn’t come over.”

“I’m assuming that this didn’t go over very well with anyone.” Derek continues to load the dishwasher around Stiles, letting him have the more mobile and aggressive tasks.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of how it got sorted out,” Stiles says, “being in that I was only eight years old. But even _after_ my dad had pulled his shit together and gotten the cap back on the whiskey bottle, Scott’s dad just . . . he just _never_ let it go. He’s _still_ not letting it go, did you hear that little dig about how my dad ‘handles stress’, Jesus, it’s a miracle I didn’t punch him right in his smug mouth.”

“While that would have been satisfying . . .” Derek lets that go, because he doesn’t need to bother voicing the obvious consequences. “Try to remember that you’re not eight years old anymore. I don’t mean that as in ‘you should grow up’. I mean that he can’t bully you like that anymore. Your father’s also in a much better place than he used to be. He can handle this jackass.” Derek shrugs a little. “And if we do have to deal with him and things get to be too much, let me step in. He doesn’t know me. He won’t know where to hit me, what buttons to press.”

“Yeah.” Stiles huffs out a sigh. “Okay. But if it comes to that . . . I expect _all_ the gold stars.”

“I don’t know about _all_ of them,” Derek teases a little. “But I think we can definitely agree on multiple and negotiate from there.”

Stiles thinks this over. “Do I get one for delegating you to the vacuuming?”

“Are you for real?”

“Hey, it was worth a try.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Sheriff Stilinski isn’t the only person in Beacon Hills with less than fond memories of Agent Rafael McCall. Sandy leaves him cooling his heels in the police station lobby for upwards of five minutes before even bothering to tell the sheriff that he’s there. This puts a smile on Tom’s face, but he tells her to show him back because there’s probably no point in antagonizing him. “Sheriff, good to see you,” McCall says, extending a hand to shake.

Tom shakes his hand in a firm but not overly tight grip. “Feeling’s mutual,” he replies, with a polite smile. He’s not about to lie, and he figures that this is as close to telling McCall how he felt as possible. “Stiles called and told me I’d probably be hearing from you.”

“Figured he would,” McCall says, and sits down in the chair across from the sheriff’s desk without waiting to be asked. “He hasn’t changed much, has he.”

The sheriff busies himself with closing and stacking files away from McCall’s prying eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Most people change over time, don’t you think? Though not usually their basic personality traits.” He turns his back on the man to file his things away, then when he’s ready, sits down at his desk. “I’m assuming you need something. What is it?”

“Well, I’d like to review your files on the murders so far,” McCall says, “and there are a number of people I’m going to need to interview.”

“Fair enough,” Tom says, with a nod. He picks up his phone and dials the desk of one of his deputies. “Deputy Meskey, would you bring in the files on Lahey and . . . yeah, yeah. Thanks.” He hangs up. “Those will be here in a couple of minutes. Why don’t you give me those names and we’ll see if we can dispatch some officers to bring them down to the station.”

McCall has clearly reviewed some of the case already, because he has a list, which he hands over to the sheriff. They’re all reasonable choices, friends or relatives of the deceased. “I’m a bit worried about this Lahey kid,” he says casually, as Stilinski skims it.

“Oh? Why is that?” the sheriff asks, figuring that he’ll play as nonchalantly oblivious as McCall, if only to annoy him.

“Well, he didn’t seem real anxious to talk to me earlier,” McCall says.

Tom chuckles a little. He can’t help it. “Gee, really?”

“How is it that you became his emergency contact?” McCall asks. “I saw that the school changed that almost two years ago, so it can’t have had anything to do with his father’s death.”

“No, it didn’t.” Tom doesn’t want to share Isaac’s private business with a jerk, especially an abusive jerk like McCall, but either he will or Isaac will have to himself. “Isaac became friends with Scott and Stiles and not long after that it came to my attention that his father was abusing him.” He looks McCall squarely in the face when he says it. “He refused to press charges or point any fingers despite ample evidence, because his father was his only family and he loves the man. But he did agree to move out. Melissa and I have been looking after him since then.” He leans forward. “Now, this news is two years old, and Isaac has dealt with it admirably. Ask what you need to ask, but do not rake that boy over the coals.”

“Well, I have no intention of doing so,” McCall says. “But you do know that most serial killers start with a victim they know, correct?”

Sheriff Stilinski rolls his eyes. “Yes, actually. As I said, I can’t and won’t fault you for wanting to speak to him, but factually so far, this looks like a damned ghost.”

“Well.” McCall smiles his smug little smile. “I understand that you don’t have the same resources at your disposal as we do over at the bureau.”

“We have, however, had access to the crime scenes.” Tom shrugs, refusing to be baited. “But you’re welcome to make your own inspections. Who would you like to interview first?”

“Let’s start with the mechanic’s girlfriend,” McCall says. “He’s the only one that we really know for sure was a murder, in any case.”

Tom nods and calls in some officers to run out and pick up the first few people on McCall’s list. He thumbs through the file while this is going on. Then they sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. “So . . . Scott’s looking good,” McCall finally says.

“Yep,” Tom agrees in a decidedly noncommittal manner.

There’s another drawn-out, awkward pause. “How, uh, how’s Melissa doing?” McCall asks. This time, Sheriff Stilinski just shakes his head in a silent refusal to answer the question. Somewhat stung, McCall says, “You know, you really should talk to your son about how he handles authority. He could get in a lot of trouble someday.”

“But today is not that day, because even though you didn’t like his attitude, I highly doubt he did anything actually wrong in the eyes of the law.” He does note with disgust that when McCall hadn’t gotten his way in talking about Scott or Melissa, he had changed tactics and started taking jabs at Stiles. Still absolutely the same old asshole.

McCall’s jaw tightens. “Can’t say I really pictured you as the permissive type,” he says.

“Yes, well, you never really knew me very well,” Tom replies evenly.

“Still,” McCall says, “that’s quite a boyfriend Stiles has.”

“Oh, we’re talking about Derek now,” Tom says. “I thought we were still talking about Stiles’ attitude. Yes, Derek is quite a catch.”

“Mm. How old is he?” McCall asks, his tone that of offhanded curiosity.

“He’s twenty-four.” Tom’s words are even, but inside he’s waiting eagerly to see what sort of response this gained. It’s probably going to be the best entertainment he’s had all afternoon.

“Geez,” McCall says, shaking his head. “Can’t say that I’d let my son date someone so much older, but hey, he’s your kid, I guess.”

At this, the sheriff outright laughs. “First off, if you wanted any say at all in who Scott dates, or how old they are, you’d have to take it up with Melissa and Scott. Secondly, I don’t _let_ Stiles date anyone, because he’s eighteen and therefore a legal adult. Thirdly, there isn’t a damned thing about Derek Hale that would make me think he’d be unfit for my son.”

“Not like he was ever suspected of murder or anything, am I right?” McCall says, with that same, insincere smile.

“Well, he was cleared of all charges,” Tom says, with a shrug.

“Those murders were never officially solved, though, correct?” McCall asks. “Because Peter Hale was the prime suspect, and then he disappeared. And now . . . well, now people are being murdered again. That seems a little odd, don’t you think?”

“You may notice a distinct lack of connection between the first set of victims and the second. Just a thought I had.”

“So far, yes,” McCall says, “but if there is a connection, I’ll find it.”

Sheriff Stilinski holds up his hands in mute, mock surrender. But internally, he hopes the man doesn’t go digging. He doesn’t want him finding the connections between the Hales and the Argents, between Stiles and Peter.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Isaac’s interview goes about as well as could be expected. Stiles watches through the one-way mirror with his father while McCall asks all sorts of obnoxious questions about Isaac and how his father treated him. He realizes halfway through that he’s trembling with rage, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. As much as it makes him furious, McCall has a right to ask.

He’s obviously expecting that he’ll be able to provoke Isaac into some sort of breakdown, but Isaac had never been a fragile flower even _before_ he had had two years to learn the self-control that only the full moon taught. He answers every question readily, in a dry, even tone. The lawyer that Keith recommended shows more emotion than he does, occasionally sniping with McCall about whether or not this is necessary.

After twenty agonizing minutes, Isaac gets sick of it. He looks at the lawyer and says, “When should I give him my alibi for the murders? Should I do that now, or let him keep wasting his time?”

McCall’s lips thin into an irritated expression, but he says, “Okay, then, Isaac, where were you the night your father was killed?”

“I slept at Scott’s house that night,” Isaac says.

“Do you two share a room?”

“Yes, sir,” Isaac says.

“And the night Jim Bennett was killed?”

“I slept at the de – at Derek’s that night. He was there, so was Stiles, I think a couple other friends were there too. And I was at school when the mechanic was killed.”

“Well, thank you for providing that information,” McCall says, and then he goes right back to asking Isaac obnoxious questions as if he hadn’t just given alibis.

The lawyer puts up with that for about another five minutes before he stands up and says, “This interview is over. If you find a flaw in Mr. Lahey’s alibi, feel free to call me and we can discuss setting up a second one. Until then, my client has nothing else to say to you.”

“One more question,” McCall says, holding up a finger as if to ask them to wait. “Isaac, how well do you know Derek Hale?”

“Uh,” Isaac says, blinking, “pretty well, I guess. I’ve stayed at his place off and on since I left my dad’s, and you know, he’s Stiles’ boyfriend, and Stiles and I are like brothers, so . . .”

“Uh huh,” McCall says. “You said you were at his place the night of the second murder. Was he there all night?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, now frowning.

“Are you certain? Would you swear to it in a court of law?”

“Yes, I’m certain,” Isaac says. “Nobody left that night. He has an electronic security system which I’m _sure_ could verify that for you.”

McCall’s jaw tightens again. He forces a smile and says, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lahey. We’ll be in touch.”

Isaac comes out of the interrogation room with a worried look on his face. “I didn’t like that at all,” he says, deadpan, which makes Stiles laugh and takes the worst of the tension out of the room. Isaac cast a glance back at McCall. “Why’s he asking about Derek?”

“Because Derek was already suspected of one murder, so that makes him a good target,” Stiles says. “Never mind that he was completely cleared of all charges. Never mind that he’s lived quietly for the past several years. He’s part of the Stilinski family, so McCall will come at him with both barrels.”

“Does he really think he did it?” Isaac asks.

“I doubt it,” Stiles says, “but he’s got a right to poke around and is probably hoping that he’ll find something else to pin on him.” He pushes both hands through his hair, tugging on it a little. “I need to – just to get out of here for a bit. Let’s go back to the den. I can settle there.”

Isaac hesitates. “Matt was going to – ”

“God, fuck Matt,” Stiles exclaims, before he can help it. Then he recovers and says, “Shit. Sorry. I don’t mean to blow up at you, I just – text him and ask if we can do it an hour later. I’ve just got to get a little time to unwind first.”

“Okay,” Isaac says, nodding a little.

Stiles supposes that the afternoon with Matt won’t be as bad as it could be. Matt’s picked up on the fact that there’s something weird about them, so they won’t have to stress too much about acting normal. They won’t be able to shift or anything, but at least they won’t have to worry about toning down their natural instincts.

A good, hard run out on the preserve has the worst of it out of his system. They make a quick stop for some groceries and then meet back at the McCall house. After some thought, Stiles had decided to do things there – she had a bigger backyard, and he wouldn’t have to worry about grandparents. About half the pack is already there when he gets there. He spreads out the food and makes sure that everyone (mostly Erica) is dressed appropriately.

“Okay, guys, here are the rules,” Stiles says, once everyone is there. They still have about ten minutes before Matt is due to show up. “Matt’s obviously onto the whole ‘weird things happen in Beacon Hills’ deal but let’s keep him as in the dark as possible. So if you want to sniff your food or cuddle your packmate, fine, but nothing blatant. Secondly, just try to keep it low-key and natural. Third and lastly, this is not an official pack dinner, so try not to scare the hell out of him.”

“An official pack dinner is how you vet new pack members, right?” Mac asks.

“Yeah, when lizards aren’t involved,” Stiles says, and Danny gives a theatrical shudder. “But seriously, yes, that’s the typical protocol. Matt seems like a nice enough guy, he’s aware of the supernatural, so under normal circumstances I might actually consider it, but . . . the pack is pretty big now. At the beginning, we basically had the leeway to choose anyone we wanted, but if the pack keeps growing like this, I won’t be able to manage it on my own. I think a dozen is about as many as I could handle. So we’re going to have to get a little more selective.”

Jake shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I – ”

“Don’t even start, Jake, spot number eleven is reserved for you and that’s the last I want to hear about it,” Stiles says. Jake wrinkles his nose but doesn’t protest.

Matt arrives a few moments later. It’s a little awkward at first, but he’s obviously an experienced photographer, and dealing with him is pretty easy when he specifically says, “pretend I’m not even here”. Being able to do that cuts down on the awkwardness a lot, since they don’t have to try to include him or even really talk to him, although occasionally some of them do.

So they play Frisbee and toss a lacrosse ball around, and the less athletic pack members act as cheerleaders, they mill around the food or talk about school and just generally fool around. “Oh, how’d it go with that FBI guy today?” Erica asks Isaac.

“He’s a jerk,” Isaac says. “But he’s a jerk that’s got nothing, so. That’s okay by me.”

“God, he’s going to be such a pain in the ass,” Stiles groans.

“I still can’t believe you’re related to that guy,” Isaac says to Scott, who rolls his eyes dramatically and agrees. “And by the way, you can probably expect a phone call or a visit from him to verify my alibi.”

“Alibi for what?” Matt asks, and several people startle. He had been in the background for so long that they had almost forgotten he was there. Typically, when anyone outside the pack or their immediate families is present, they have to be on guard and it’s impossible to forget about it.

“Oh, uh, it turns out that my dad’s death wasn’t an accident,” Isaac says.

Matt’s eyes go a little wide. “That’s awful, man. Do they have any idea who did it?”

“Not really, just that it might be connected to a couple other murders that looked like accidents at first,” Isaac says.

“We really shouldn’t say much about it,” Stiles says. “Open investigations and such.”

“Oh, right,” Matt says. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Stiles says. “How’s all the yearbook stuff coming?”

“Good,” he says. “We’re mostly just doing layout now. Leaving a few pages for prom and stuff, but the rest of it we have to get put together now.”

Lydia, of course, takes this opportunity to talk about the prom. Specifically, she’s seen a gorgeous dress and wants to poll everyone for what color goes best with her complexion. Then she tells the other girls that she’s already arranged the appointments at the salon, but they really should have a practice run or two so the stylist can decide what would work best with their hair. Allison and Erica are used to this, but Mac is looking at Lydia like she just got off a plane from Fantasyland.

“So do you guys have dates yet?” Matt asks the others. “I mean, Stiles, how many guys have challenged you for the right to take Erica?”

Erica laughs. “I’ve been asked like nineteen times, but Stiles wins.”

“Why is that?” Matt asks.

“Because he _never_ complains about going down on me,” Erica says brightly.

“Oh my _God_ , Erica,” Stiles says, flushing pink but laughing anyway. He clears his throat and says, “Just for that . . .”

“Nope, don’t even think about it,” Erica says.

Stiles makes a face at her. Lydia intervenes to say that Jackson has asked her to go ‘just as friends’ and she supposes that she’ll go along with it, if only because they’re going to be prom king and queen. Scott and Allison are going together, of course, but none of the rest of them have dates. Stiles feels a little bad about that, but romance outside the pack is pretty much impossible. There are just too many secrets.

Someday, he thinks, Lydia’s going to meet some dorky astrophysicist who doesn’t realize what a hot body he has, and they’re going to fall madly in love. Someday, Isaac will bump into some shy girl in the gardening section of Home Depot, and get lost in her eyes. Someday, Boyd’s quiet, patient nature and amazing biceps will attract more women than he can shake a stick at. There are ‘somedays’ for all of them, and then, he supposes, the pack will get even bigger. They’ll have families and have to buy even more land. Or maybe someday they’ll get in a fight with another alpha and someone will kill them and then they’ll break up into two separate packs.

Anything can happen, but despite the world-ending calamities that seem to strike whenever he’s not looking, he thinks their future is pretty bright.

Matt doesn’t question the fact that none of them really have dates, which doesn’t surprise Stiles. They’re insular, and everyone knows it. Scott asks him if he’s taking anybody, and he says no, but his gaze darts over to Allison before he can quite help it. Scott doesn’t seem to care, which doesn’t surprise Stiles. Few people are as secure in their relationships as Scott and Allison are.

The sun starts to set and Matt says he has to go. He says he’ll send Stiles the best pictures for him to approve, and Stiles says okay.

Afterwards, Stiles is due at home for dinner with his grandparents, and the others are breaking off into twos and threes. Stiles catches Isaac by the elbow and says, “You’re going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says. “I think I’m all right. It was interesting, having Matt here. I mean, he’s a nice guy, but he’s not . . .”

“Right,” Stiles says, and Isaac nods. “Well, we can’t all be perfect.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Favorite chapter alert! <3

 

Dinner at home is tense. Sheriff Stilinski is in a terrible mood, due to Agent McCall’s interference with his investigation. Apparently, McCall has chosen to perseverate on Derek’s possible involvement rather than actually look for real suspects. “He’s got a criminal history, Tom,” Stilinski says, trying to put the same note of unctuous slime into his voice. “And if he’s friends with Isaac, maybe he decided to get revenge for the kid.”

“How would that explain the other two murders?” Stiles asks, chopping green onions.

“It doesn’t, of course it doesn’t,” Tom said. “The basic theory is that he started with Lahey for semi-valid reasons, realized he got off on it, and went looking for more victims.”

“Which is ridiculous given that one of the cornerstones of his little theory is that Derek’s probably already killed,” Stiles pointed out, and Tom threw his hands into the air in defeat. Stiles laughs. He can’t help it, when his father gets frustrated enough to indulge in some of the same melodrama that is Stiles’ daily diet.

“He doesn’t need logic,” Stilinski says. “He’s just doing this to be a pain in my ass.”

“Well, let’s be a pain right back,” Stiles says.

“If we do that, odds are good that nothing will ever be solved,” his father points out, and sighs. “But on the upside, I think I know what his next move is going to be. He was talking about bringing Derek in for questioning. I let him know that Derek lives out on the preserve and then said he would be in town tomorrow because he’s going to have dinner here along with Isaac and Scott’s family.”

“So he’s totally going to show up in the middle of dinner without warning to try to embarrass us and show off for Melissa,” Stiles says with a nod. “Noted.”

“Well, he certainly sounds like a scoundrel,” was Milena’s opinion, once they all sat down to dinner together. “I’m surprised that Melissa put up with him as long as she did. That being said, Tommy, if there’s anything that can get you to make your move with that woman, I hope that this is it! Goodness, imagine the look on his face!”

“You know . . .” Stiles says.

“No,” his father replies. “I do not know. Stop encouraging your grandmother.”

“Even if you didn’t get together, don’t you think it would be worth it to make out a little, just to piss him off?” Stiles asks brightly.

He sees his father hesitate. “Stop it,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” Tomasz says, with a wise nod.

“No evil here,” Stiles says. “Just good, old-fashioned concern!”

Sheriff Stilinski narrows his eyes at him and says, deliberately, “Pass the rice.”

“So, the McCalls are coming over for dinner tomorrow!” Milena says, beaming. “That sounds lovely. I haven’t seen enough of Scotty while we’ve been here. Do you think he’ll bring that lovely lady of his?”

“Probably,” Stiles says. He grins a little and adds, “I’m actually kind of sad that Agent McCall has decided to fixate on Derek. Wouldn’t it have been funny if he had tried to overturn Isaac’s first alibi and found out that not only Scott, but also Allison, could vouch for him? Maybe I’ll find a way to bring that up just to rub in his face that he’s not in control of Scott’s life anymore.”

“Oh my,” Tomasz says, chuckling.

“Don’t antagonize him,” the sheriff says, shaking his head. “The quickest way to get rid of him is to solve these murders, so that’s what I’m going to focus on. I may not be here during dinner tomorrow, depending.”

“Maybe I’ll make bigos then,” Stiles says, since he knows his father hates it.

“Will your young man eat that?” Tomasz asks.

“Probably not,” Stiles says, smirking. “I don’t think he and cabbage get along very well.”

“Who does?” Sheriff Stilinski mutters, and his mother shakes his head at him fondly.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

While Stiles and the others are at school the next day, there’s another victim. This time it’s a woman who appears to have hanged herself in her apartment, named Kara Simmons. Stiles doesn’t even need to say anything to his father. He texts him updates throughout the school day. The death is suspicious. There’s no history of depression, substance abuse, or other risk factors. She was due to be married that summer, had a full-time job, and seemed happy.

Stiles knows that suicides can be that sudden and unexpected sometimes, but given the pattern, he’s sure that this death is connected. He can feel it in his bones.

‘suffocation again,’ he texts his father. A different method, but still the same end result.

Additional forensics that come in while they’re gone back up the theory. There’s bruising on the side of Simmons’ face, originally thought to have been caused because the banister rail that she had hanged herself from had only supported her weight for a while and then had collapsed. But testing showed that the bruises were made prior to her death.

“So he knocked her out and then strung her up,” Stiles surmises. “Then cut her down to ‘explain’ the bruises.”

“Yeah, that’s the impression I’ve gotten,” Tom says with a sigh. He’s come home for a brief snack and to check in with Stiles, since it’s surely going to be a long night. “I don’t know if McCall will still show up while everyone’s having dinner. On the upside, if he insists on interrogating Derek today, it’ll get him out of my hair while I do some real investigation.”

Stiles nods a little. “It’s so weird,” he says. “Most of the victims are around the same age, right? They could have stuff in common socially, or through work. Lahey is such . . . such an outlier. I still wonder if he was really a victim.”

“Well, we won’t know until we catch whoever did this and see if we can find out,” Tom says. He leans over and tousles Stiles’ hair. “I’m heading back to the station. You make dinner, try not to worry about it. Text me if McCall shows up and goes anywhere with Derek.”

“I will,” Stiles says. Then he concentrates on cooking. Bigos is a Polish stew that’s fairly easy to make, although he doesn’t have a lot of practice with it. Since he’s guessing it might not be as well received from people at the dinner who weren’t raised in Poland, he cooks some of the pork plain. There are rolls for a starch, and he makes a salad, so there will be plenty of food for everyone.

Milena and Tomasz come home from their errands, where they’ve been checking on their RV, while he’s still cooking. Milena stays in the kitchen and chatters and helps Stiles with the cooking while Tomasz brings in some extra chairs from the shed outside. “I can do that, Grandpa,” Stiles offers, but Tomasz protests and says that he’s as fit as a fiddle.

Derek shows up about twenty minutes later, just as Stiles is finishing up, and Stiles does his best not to throw himself at the other man. He hasn’t had to restrain himself like that in ages, and settles for a hug instead of trying to climb Derek like a tree as usual. Milena clucks her tongue and says, “Are you two waiting for marriage, what? Every time I see you two, it’s these hugs and pecks on the cheek!”

“Grandma,” Stiles says, somewhat painfully. He remembers Gwen’s advice about just telling his grandparents flat out that he and Derek have a nontraditional relationship, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s just not their business.

Derek glances at him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I’m not really a fan of PDA,” he says. “It isn’t you.”

“Well,” Milena says, and sniffs. “You two have nothing to be embarrassed about, but I suppose to each their own. Derek, come help me set the table.”

“Yes, ma’m,” Derek says, following her into the dining room. His nose is wrinkling from the smell of the cabbage. Stiles mouths ‘sorry’ after him, and his shoulders huff into a sigh. Scott and his mother arrive a few minutes later. Allison isn’t with them, but before Stiles can ask, she shows up with both of her parents as well as Jake.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says, blinking at Chris. “Not to sound rude, but what are you doing here?”

“Allison told me you would be cooking something traditional,” Chris says, smirking. “Victoria wanted to come. Besides, I’ve heard so much about your grandparents, I thought it would be nice to meet them. We brought wine. I wasn’t sure whether red or white would be appropriate, so we brought a bottle of each.”

Stiles suspects that Chris is trying to get back at him for the many, many times that he’s been a pain in the hunter’s ass. He supposes that he probably deserves it. “Uh, as far as I know, pork dishes can go either way, and we certainly have enough people here, so I guess we’ll just set out both and let people choose.”

Victoria hands him the wine with her usual icy stare. Allison grimaces when he looks at her and just shakes her head a little. “It’s not because of you,” she says under her breath. “Dad’s dying to get a gander at Scott’s dad, and he figures this is the only way he’ll get the chance to do it.”

“Oh geez,” Stiles says, but ushers them into the other room. Derek’s back and shoulders go tense the way they always do whenever an Argent is around. Scott starts making introductions, so Stiles focuses on the food. He serves everyone a bowl of the soup – small for the people who have never had it, large for the ones who have and know they like it – and sets out the platter of pork roast and the basket of rolls and salad so if they decide they don’t like it, they can serve themselves.

“Ooh, this is spicy!” Allison says. “I like it!”

“It’s delicious, Stiles,” Melissa agrees. “God, Scott, don’t make that face. I taught you better manners than that.”

“Men are such babies,” Allison says, as Derek surreptitiously pushes the bowl away, and Milena laughs delightedly. As if to prove his worth, Chris says the soup is good, and gets one of the larger bowls. Stiles just shakes his head a little and tries not to grin. He knows that things are complicated, but this is looking like it’s going to be an entertaining evening.

“I think it’s good,” Jake says, “but it makes my eyes water.”

“That reminds me,” Victoria says, “the optometrist called. Your new pair of glasses is in.”

“Yeah, I noticed you were wearing your spares,” Stiles says, dishing himself up some salad. “What’d you do to them?”

“I, uh, I sat on them after getting out of the shower,” Jake says, rubbing a hand over the back of his hair.

Stiles wants to ask if that’s the second or third pair that he’s broken, but decides against it. Jake’s ego is still too fragile for that sort of joking. He thinks that the teenager is still silently in awe of the fact that Chris and Victoria bought him a new pair after he broke them the first time. “Salad, Mr. Argent?” he asks, with a bright smile.

Chris narrows his eyes and takes the salad bowl. “So I hear we’re expecting a guest,” he says.

Stiles shrugs. “He may or may not show up.”

“This investigation is important to me, too, you know,” Chris says.

Scott looks nervously at the grandparents and says, “Mr. Argent was friends with one of the men who was killed.”

“That’s terrible; I’m so sorry for your loss,” Tomasz says gravely.

Chris gives a little nod but doesn’t reply.

Stiles lets out a sigh. “Look, nobody’s happy about Agent McCall’s involvement, trust me. But as my dad said earlier, if he’s fixated on finding a way to make this my dad’s fault and embarrass the Stilinskis in general, then he’ll stay out of my dad’s way while he does the actual investigation.”

Chris’ mouth tightens; he’s obviously not happy about it but can’t quite find an argument. “Funny that they sent McCall, though.”

“I’m sure he requested it when he heard about it,” Melissa says. She glances sideways at Scott and says, “This isn’t the first time he’s showed his face in these parts. I just usually shut the door in his face and tell him that if he doesn’t leave town, I’ll get a restraining order. Now he’s got a reason to stay that I can’t trump.”

“What a horrible person,” Milena says.

“I say we tie him to a chair and force feed him the soup,” Scott says.

Stiles throws a roll at him. Scott nabs it out of the air with reflexes that Stiles hopes his grandmother doesn’t notice.

“All I know is that when he shows up, I’m going to pretend I can’t see or hear him,” Melissa says. “Scott, you’re welcome to employ the same strategy.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Scott grumbles.

“Where’s the fun in getting arrested if you punch him in the face like you really want to?” Melissa counters. Scott grimaces but agrees. Allison leans over and smiles at him, squeezing his hand under the table, and changes the subject by asking about their plans for the weekend. Milena, of course, is thrilled that she’s asked, and started telling everyone all about it.

Nearly half an hour has gone by before McCall shows up. When the doorbell rings, Stiles feels every muscle in his body go tight with tension. Derek gives him a quick, concerned look, but Stiles just gets up and goes to answer it. McCall is standing on the front doorstep with that smug smile on his face. “Mr. Stilinski,” he says.

“Agent McCall,” Stiles says, with a nod. “My father said we should probably expect you. What do you need?”

“Well, I’d like to have a few words with Mr. Hale.”

Stiles gives him a long, steady look for a few moments before standing back. “Come in,” he says, and leads McCall into the dining room.

McCall immediately zeroes in on Scott and Melissa and offers them a smile that Stiles thinks is supposed to be chagrined. “Hey, Scott. Melissa.”

Scott doesn’t even look at him. He keeps his gaze trained on Allison, as adoring as ever, and asks her about the movie he wants to watch that weekend. Melissa chips in with a comment on one of the actors. McCall’s jaw goes tight and unhappy at this obvious cold shoulder, but before he can say anything, Chris is rising from his seat. He holds out a hand and says, “Agent McCall. Chris Argent. I’m Allison’s dad.”

“Allison . . .?” McCall says politely.

Chris gives him a steady look. “Your son’s girlfriend,” he says, in a tone that clearly implies any decent father would already have this information. “I’m glad you stopped by. Jim Bennett was a close friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” McCall says. Despite being the exact same words Tomasz had spoken an hour earlier, they sound leagues less sincere.

“I’d like to be kept up to date in the case,” Chris says. “Jim didn’t have any family in the area.”

“Well, I’m sure Sheriff Stilinski would be happy to keep you posted,” McCall says.

“He’s helped me keep tabs on things,” Chris agrees. “He’s a good cop.”

“Yes, it’s too bad he didn’t figure out these were murders until three people had already been killed,” McCall says. Stiles looks up, but Derek’s grip on his shoulder keeps him from saying anything that he shouldn’t.

Chris just keeps glowering at McCall. “Actually, when I went to Sheriff Stilinski and told him I suspected foul play in Jim’s death, he was very open to the idea. He opened an investigation immediately.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” McCall says. “Why were you so convinced it wasn’t an accident?”

“Simply put, because Jim was too smart to park his car that close to a hill and then not notice that he was inhaling car exhaust.”

“Well,” McCall says, “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“I appreciate that,” Chris says, “but I have a concern. I understand that there might be some bad blood, maybe an old rivalry, between you and Sheriff Stilinski. I just hope you’re professional enough that you won’t go chasing leads designed make him look bad rather than trying to solve this case.”

“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” McCall says. “That being said, Mr. Hale, it’s nice to see you again. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

Derek stares at him, then looks slowly around the room as if to study his surroundings before looking back at him and saying, “I’m having dinner with my friends.”

“Of course,” McCall says. “No rush. Could you stop by the station in, say, an hour?”

“I’ll consider it,” Derek says, “but that might not be convenient to my lawyer, who will be present. I’ll call him when I finish my meal. If he can’t make it, I’ll have him call you and set something up for tomorrow. I’m sure you have plenty to do tonight, since there was another victim yesterday.”

“Fine,” McCall says dismissively. Then he glances around the room again. “Is that why the sheriff isn’t here? Is he off investigating?”

“He’s doing his job, yes,” Derek says.

“And here I thought maybe it was because you were serving alcohol,” McCall says, with a smirk.

Stiles’ temper snaps so suddenly that nobody sees it coming, not even himself. He jolts to his feet, slams both hands on the table, and shouts, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

There’s several moments of stunned silence. From the cringing look on Allison and Scott’s faces, he knows that his eyes must have turned crimson, although only for a moment before he forced it back down. Chris’ hand is on his belt like he’s thinking about going for his gun. Stiles can’t exactly blame him for that, given how deeply the hunter reflexes are trained into him.

But it isn’t just the volume or the suddenness or even the red eyes that are making everyone stare in shock. Stiles has a _presence_ to him now, an aura that could never be explained in words. Threats of violence dance in the air on the wake of his words.

Only McCall himself seems unaware of the fact that both Scott and Derek are gathering themselves to throw themselves on top of Stiles before he can tear the agent’s throat out with his bare hands. In fact, there’s a trace of his usual smirk as he says, “I won’t be given orders by a childish brat like – ”

“Now, see here, young man!” It’s Milena who speaks up before anyone else can. She’s on her feet and advancing on McCall with her spoon still in her hand. “You’ve got some nerve coming in here and saying such things about my son and grandson, in their own home, no less! Who the hell do you think you are? What’s wrong with you, did your mother not hold you enough as a child, huh?”

McCall’s smile goes thin. “Now, Mrs. Stilinski – ”

“Don’t you ‘now, now’ me!” Milena shakes the spoon in his face. “I’m not some senile old woman that you can step all over. I survived the Holocaust, sonny boy, two years in Płaszów, so don’t you smirk at me! Do you think my son sprang up out of the ground with his brains and his backbone already intact? No, he got those from me and my Tomasz, so you’d better watch your mouth!”

“I’m not – ”

“Not another word out of you! How dare you accuse Przemysław of being childish when you’re the one pursuing some petty feud, trying to show up Tommy because he’s better than you?” Milena is taking steps forward now, slowing backing McCall out of the room. He obviously doesn’t want to go, but can’t figure out how to do anything else without actually laying his hands on the woman. “Now, you’re not welcome in this home anymore. Przemysław asked you to leave and by God I think you had better. He’s the man of this house while Tommy’s out, and if you don’t go, we’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing, don’t you think we won’t!”

She’s backed him all the way out the door at this point, and when McCall opens his mouth to say something, she slams the door in his face. Then she claps her hands together as if dusting them off, and walks back into the dining room, where everyone is staring at her.

“Holy _shit_ , Grandma Millie,” Scott blurts out. “That was awesome!”

“Super awesome,” Allison agrees. “Completely amazing.”

“Did you really survive the Holocaust?” Jake asks, eyes wide.

“Of course I did, both Tomasz and I did, we’re from Poland, you know,” Milena says. “Of course I was just a little girl. Tomasz had better luck than I did; he never got put in any of the camps.” She states this matter-of-factly as she slides back into her chair. “My goodness, what an unpleasant person.”

Derek looks up at Stiles, who’s still standing, trembling, like he’s stuck in the moment he had almost lost control and afraid to move. “C’mon. Let’s go get dessert ready.”

Slowly, Stiles nods. Some of the tension starts to leave his body. “Yeah,” he says. He turns and heads into the kitchen without another word.

Derek follows him and watches him lean against the counter for several long minutes, watches his body tremble. “Cuddles or violence?”

Stiles opens his mouth to say ‘violence’ – he’s just so _angry_ – but then shakes his head and steps into the circle of Derek’s arms instead. He doesn’t want to take the time to beat the shit out of Derek right now. And he _is_ angry, no doubt about that, but some time with Gwen has taught him that he gets the most pissed off when he feels scared. When things are out of his control. Helplessness is his trigger more than anything else. He just wants to feel safe and protected for a few minutes.

Milena comes in a few minutes later to find them still standing there, Derek’s arms around Stiles’ waist, Stiles’ cheek pressed into his shoulder. “See now, this is what I’m talking about!” she says, reaching out to tousle Stiles’ hair. “Now, don’t glare at me like that, I just figured I would come try to be helpful since you were taking so long.”

Reluctantly, Stiles pulls out of Derek’s embrace and reaches for the tray of tarts that he had prepared for dessert. Derek grabs a set of small plates. They walk back into the dining room and set the things down.

“You know,” Chris says, “I’d seen your name written down a couple times, but that’s not how I would have guessed it was pronounced.”

Stiles bristles and his jaw tightens. “Good job,” he says, “you’ve discovered one of the many reasons why I prefer people call me ‘Stiles’.”

“You could just tell people how to pronounce it,” Jake says, uncertain.

The fact that it’s Jake making the suggestion and not anyone else at the table is the only thing that keeps Stiles from retorting with something rude. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself of what Gwen had said about this. “I don’t like people calling me Przemysław because that’s what my mother called me. It reminds me of her, and that bothers me sometimes.”

“Oh,” Allison says, her eyes a little wide.

“Goodness,” Milena says, “why didn’t you just say so to begin with? I’ll call you Stiles if it’s that important to you.”

Stiles hesitates. “No, Grandma, you don’t have to call me Stiles. It’s okay for you. Just . . . not other people.”

The silence is awkward for a moment before Tomasz says, “These tarts are amazing, Stiles. Maybe you should go into culinary school instead of law enforcement.”

Scott laughs. “Get real! He may bake a good muffin, but he’s been talking about being a cop since he was three.”

“I know, I remember you two used to play ‘cops and cops’ because neither of you wanted to be the robber,” Melissa says.

Scott and Stiles both turn pink. Milena laughs and Allison claps her hands and says, “That’s adorable!”

“Maybe I could do both,” Stiles says. “Interrogate people by offering them delicious tarts if they confess.”

“For tarts this good . . .” Melissa says.

The atmosphere lightens up and everyone starts having a good time again. Stiles is still tense, and McCall is a pervasive shadow in the room, but things could be worse. Stiles eats an extra tart and tries not to think too much. Derek excuses himself to call the lawyer. He comes back a few minutes later and says that the lawyer will meet him at the police station in forty minutes.

“We should get going, then,” Chris says, getting to his feet.

“I’ll help Stiles clear the table first,” Allison says. Chris narrows his eyes at her, but doesn’t protest as she grabs a stack of the little plates and follows Stiles into the kitchen. He clearly suspects that she’s cornering him for a talk alone, but just as clearly assumes it’s pack business and doesn’t interfere. “Hey. Just, uh . . . quick thing. Matt.”

“Yeah, what about him?” Stiles asks, getting the Saran-Wrap out of the cupboard for the leftover tarts.

“I don’t think we should invite him to any more pack stuff,” Allison says. “Or any more anythings, really. I noticed at the thing the other day when he was taking photographs of the pack that his camera was aimed at me a _lot_ of the time. So I took a look at it when he put it down and went in to use the bathroom. Stiles, he’s _literally_ been following me around outside of school and taking my picture. It’s creepy.”

Stiles feels his skin crawl a little. “I’m amazed you didn’t notice,” he says.

“It’s almost always somewhere public, where there’s a crowd – I might have seen him once or twice and not thought anything of it.”

“Does Scott know?”

“Not yet. He’ll flip if he finds out, so I don’t really want to say anything while his dad is in town. His temper is pretty short. Anyway, I can take care of Matt on my own – I’ll break his fingers if he keeps following me around. But I thought you should know.”

Stiles nods. “Yep. You deal with it as needed, and from now unto eternity, Matt is excommunicated.”

“Cool,” Allison says. “Hey, you take a breather after Derek talks to Scott’s dad tonight, okay? You look pretty ragged.”

“I know,” Stiles says, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’ll try, at least.”

“Okay.” She gives him a quick hug. “See you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun with Derek's interrogation in this chapter. But uh, I don't recommend you employ these strategies with real police officers if you ever happen to be suspected of murder....

 

Derek is left waiting in the interrogation room for upwards of ten minutes, which annoys him even though it doesn’t surprise him. The lawyer Keith had recommended, a heavyset but surprisingly softspoken man named Omar, comes in and sits down next to Derek. He introduces himself, and shakes Derek’s hand. “We don’t even have to do this,” he says. “Agent McCall has no evidence that you were involved in any of these crimes. Say the word, and I’ll tell him we’re not even having an interview.”

“That’ll only make him more of a jerk,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll talk to him. I was on my property during the first two murders, and the security system will show that there’s no way I could have come or gone. The third and fourth, I don’t have an alibi. If that matters to you.”

Omar shrugs as if to say it doesn’t really matter. Stiles, watching through the mirror, is frustrated by this. Derek was with him during both of those murders – but it was at school, in his fur and his vest, so there’s no way they can present that in a court of law. “It’s really the first that concerns me. Were you alone on your property that night?”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head. “Stiles was there with me.”

“Well, he won’t like that,” Omar says. “He’s probably going to ask a lot of completely irrelevant questions. Give a straight answer, say as little as possible.”

Derek’s stare bores into the wall. “No problem.”

Omar gives a little snort. “If I think he’s getting out of line, I’ll tell him to knock it off. If there’s a question I think you shouldn’t answer, I’ll tell you.” He stands up and says, “Now I think I’ll go see what’s taking him so long.” The lawyer leaves the room. Stiles looks through the mirror and sees Derek roll his eyes. His lupa is tense, but it’s tension from being irritated, not being afraid. It’s the best he can hope for.

A few minutes later, Omar comes back in. Agent McCall follows, and gives Derek the least sincere smile ever seen on the planet. “Mr. Hale, thank you for coming in,” he says.

Derek shrugs a little in reply. He’s not about to say ‘you’re welcome’ when the man isn’t welcome at all. He doesn’t care about being polite.

“So,” McCall says, sitting down across from him. “What is your relationship with Isaac Lahey?”

“We’re friends,” Derek says flatly.

“For how long?”

“About two years.”

“And how did you make his acquaintance?”

“Through Stiles and Scott,” Derek says. It’s blatantly untrue, but there’s no FBI-friendly way to say ‘I lifted a backhoe off him after he fell into an open grave’. He could have elaborated by explaining that the three teenagers were on the same lacrosse team, but decides against it. Omar had said to say as little as possible.

“Mm hm,” McCall says. “Because you and Stiles are boyfriends, right? Were you boyfriends back then?”

“Yes to the first. No to the second.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Because Stiles would have only been sixteen back then, if I can do my math correctly.”

Omar glowers at this and says, “If you’re thinking about accusing my client of something, I’m going to put a stop to that right now. There’s nothing illegal about dating somebody younger than you.”

“Of course not,” McCall says, “but I have to admit that I find it odd that Derek’s friends are all in Stiles’ age-group, rather than his own.”

Derek shrugs again and raises his eyebrows, clearly suggesting that it’s McCall’s problem that he finds it odd, not Derek’s.

“Especially you and Stiles,” McCall continues. “I mean, it’s a head-scratcher, given the history between your two families. I’m trying to work it out. I feel like there’s a real romantic comedy potential here. Boy meets boy, boy accuses boy of murder, boy’s serial-killing uncle kidnaps boy and leaves him in a car trunk for two days, boy . . . dates boy?”

The corner of Derek’s lips twitches, just a little, and then his expression goes flat again. Stiles recognizes that Derek is amused at this point because his lack of words at this point is clearly annoying the shit out of Agent McCall.

“Not a chatty fellow, are you?” McCall says, with a tight smile.

Derek just stares at him.

McCall stares back for a moment, then says, abruptly, “When was the last time you saw your uncle?”

There’s only the briefest of pauses before Derek says, “December of 2011.” He manages to keep a blank expression, but Stiles can feel his curiosity.

“Under what circumstances?”

Omar clears his throat. “Mr. Hale, you don’t need to answer that question.” To McCall, he says, “We agreed to come here so Mr. Hale could be asked questions about the murders of Roger Lahey and those that followed. This is completely irrelevant, and what’s more, you have no business asking questions about a family tragedy that my client has long since put behind him.”

“If he has a history of consorting with criminals – ”

“He does not,” Omar says. “Consorting with criminals and being related to one are different things.”

“But two serial killers in the same town, only two years apart?” McCall is still smiling. “What are the odds of that?”

“I haven’t done the math, and neither have you. Until you have solid evidence that Peter Hale is involved in these crimes and something to go on beyond vague suspicion and grandstanding, then you will keep your questions restricted to the matters at hand, or this interview will be terminated.”

Derek shoots a glance at the window, as if to ask Stiles if he’s enjoying the show. Then he rests his elbow on the table and continues staring at McCall.

McCall’s smile has gone thin and brittle. “Very well. Mr. Hale, do you recall your whereabouts the night of April eleventh, 2013? That would have been a Tuesday, if that helps.”

“Yes,” Derek says.

McCall waits for more. The silence goes on a beat too long to be uncomfortable before McCall clears his throat and says, “Okay, Mr. Hale, where were you the night of April eleventh, 2013?”

“At home.”

“I see. And can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Yes,” Derek says.

There’s another long pause. Stiles starts stifling the fit of hysterical giggles he can feel coming on. McCall’s mouth tightens and says, “Who, precisely, can vouch for your whereabouts that night?”

“Stiles.”

“Use his legal name,” Omar says quietly.

“I can’t pronounce it. Last name is Stilinski.”

“Stiles stayed the night at your place, hm?” McCall says.

Derek’s stare continues to punch holes in McCall’s forehead. “Obviously.”

“Does he do that often?”

Derek considers that and turns to Omar. “Is he allowed to ask that?”

Omar sighs. “Yes, because the more involved you are with the person who is vouching for you, the softer your alibi becomes.”

There’s a pause while Derek thinks about that, decides that it makes sense, and then turns back to McCall. “Yes, he stays at my place often. But if you need further proof that I didn’t leave the house that night, there’s also my security system,” he adds, giving McCall the freebie because he knows it will only piss him off more.

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” McCall says. “Can you describe it for me?”

“There’s an electric fence that surrounds my property. The system records when it’s turned on and off. So it will show that I didn’t leave the property that night.”

“How is it armed?” McCall asks.

Derek frowns a little. “How?”

“Yes, how. Is there a code with a keypad, a switch, what?”

“There’s a remote that arms and disarms it.”

“Oh, a remote,” McCall says. “So it’s possible that you could have armed it for the night despite not technically being on the property, and then disarmed it when you returned the next morning?”

“Yes. That would be possible.” Derek doesn’t look worried. In fact, if Stiles is reading his expression right, he wants McCall to run with this.

Unfortunately for Derek, McCall doesn’t. “I see,” he says, and jots down another note. “How much do you know about Isaac’s relationship with his father?”

“I know he chose not to live with the man.”

“I hear his home situation was pretty bad. A lot of abuse.” McCall leans back in his chair. “That must have been difficult for you, watching a friend suffer.”

“I didn’t watch him suffer. I didn’t meet him until after he was living with Melissa and Scott.”

“But still. You must have heard about it. Witnessed the aftermath.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, his stare becoming even more intense. “Living with an abusive father came up a lot in the McCall house.”

Stiles can’t help it. He just bursts into laughter. Derek steals a glance towards the mirror. He can hear Stiles, even though the humans in the room can’t. It takes effort to keep a smile from tugging at his lips.

McCall is clearly put off by this remark, and his jaw tightens further. “Do you know any of these people?” he asks, putting photographs of the other three victims on the table in front of Derek.

Derek leans forward to give them a look. “No.”

“Are you sure? Even just as acquaintances.”

“If I had been unsure, I would have said so. No. I do not know them.”

“You seem very defensive.”

Derek’s eyebrow went up. “No. This is just me.”

“Mm hm. Where were you yesterday afternoon, between the hours of one and four PM?”

“At home,” Derek says, since ‘being a service dog’ wouldn’t go over very well.

“And can anyone vouch for that?”

“Nope.” Derek’s reply was just as flat and calm as everything else he had said.

“I see.” McCall jotted down some notes on his little pad, waiting as the silence stretches out. It certainly doesn’t seem to bother Derek. “Now, Mr. Guerrero, I am going to have to ask a few questions about Peter Hale. The fact is, he’s killed people in Beacon Hills before, and he’s been missing for over two years. Do I have solid evidence that he’s involved? No. But serial killers typically don’t just stop. They may fall into a period of quiet, but they don’t stop. So. Mr. Hale. What were the circumstances of the last time you saw your uncle?”

“It was in his hospital room,” Derek lies smoothly. He almost adds something like ‘we didn’t talk much since he was catatonic’ but refrains, since the short answers seem to piss McCall off more. If he’s going to have to talk about Peter, he wants McCall to be as miserable as he is.

“And was that before or after you knew he was murdering people?”

“Don’t answer that,” Omar says to Derek, then turns back to McCall and says, “How about you phrase that in a manner that makes it seem less like you’re trying to bait my client into somehow incriminating himself?”

McCall’s smile goes thin again, and he says, “When you last saw your uncle, were you aware that people were being murdered in Beacon Hills?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to him about it?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you would have. Your sister Laura was the first victim. Why did Peter kill your sister?”

“Please stop asking my client things that he can’t possibly be expected to know,” Omar says, with a trace of annoyance in his voice.

McCall’s smile doesn’t falter. “What did Peter have to say for himself?”

“Nothing. He was catatonic.”

“Apparently he wasn’t.”

“Apparently not,” Derek agrees dryly.

McCall gives him another long look. “So the last time you saw Peter, you had no idea that he was a serial killer.”

“Correct.” Derek wonders if he looks as bored as he feels. If nothing else, it’s hard to get emotionally worked up about this anymore. It’s not that he doesn’t care; it’s more that he’s still emotionally exhausted on the topic.

“Do you think your uncle would come to you, if he decided to come back to Beacon Hills?”

“No,” Derek says.

“Why not? You are his only family left, after all.”

“And whose fault is that? Do the math. I thought you were good at it.”

McCall glowers again. “Well, son, I’m afraid to say that I’m also pretty good at being a cop. And I think you’re lying. About a lot of things. I think you know exactly where your uncle is. Now, whether or not he’s involved in this current string of murders, I honestly don’t know, but I have a hard time believing that after what he did, he just walked out of Beacon Hills and vanished into the ether.”

Derek looks him right in the eye. “Don’t call me son.”

McCall is smiling now. “I notice you’re not arguing about anything else.”

“I was instructed to answer questions. You haven’t asked one. All you’ve done is state your opinion.”

“Well, what do you think of my opinion?”

“I don’t care about your opinion.”

“That seems awfully unwise.”

Omar stood. “This interview is over. My client has not been contacted by Peter Hale, and he doesn’t know where he went after he left Beacon Hills. If Peter contacts my client, he will inform the _appropriate_ authorities immediately.” Omar’s voice makes it clear that those authorities are not going to be McCall.

Derek stands as well, trusting Omar. McCall just offers them a nasty smile and says, “I’ll be in touch.”

“You do that,” Derek says, smiling right back.

When he steps out of the interrogation room, Stiles is there, pacing back and forth. His hair is standing up in tufts like he’s been yanking on it, and his frustration and rage is practically boiling over. Omar doesn’t pay him any mind, but just says to Derek, “If he even comes near you, call me immediately. I’ll sue his ass for harassment.”

Derek is already moving towards Stiles, offering his hand rather than crowding him. “In that case, I almost hope he tries.”

“I don’t,” Stiles snaps, and stomps towards the door without another word.

Derek winces a little. “Thanks,” he tells Omar, and then follows Stiles, unsure of what exactly he’s going to be dealing with.

Stiles is waiting in the Jeep. As soon as Derek slides in, he bites out, “I hate that guy _so much_.”

“I can’t decide if he’s obnoxious or just stupid,” Derek says. “It’s a toss-up.”

Stiles is quiet for a long moment before he says, “It would be easier if he were stupid.”

“Well, he’s not as smart as he’d like everyone to think.” Derek’s quiet for a minute. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“I know that, damn it,” Stiles snaps. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re hurting?”

“I think sometimes it doesn’t hurt to tell you anyway,” Derek points out.

Stiles says nothing for a long moment. Then he pushes both his hands through his hair and says, “Jesus, I just – let’s just get out of here.” He slams the Jeep into reverse with more force than necessary and backs out of the parking space. Derek nods and stays quiet, just letting Stiles drive, waiting to see if he’ll say anything else. For several long minutes, he doesn’t. He heads out of town and coasts along the old country roads. Gradually, the tension starts to drain out of him. There’s a certain relief in not being expected or needed anywhere at the moment. Finally, he says, “God, I’m so sick of fucking food I can barely pronounce – let’s go grab a cheeseburger.”

There was a long pause while Derek blinks at him. “You’re my favorite person ever.”

Stiles snorts. “This from the guy who wouldn’t even _try_ the soup. Even Scott tried it.”

Derek makes a face. “I smelled it. Does it help if I feel guilty about not trying it?”

“No. It doesn’t help. You’re an idiot,” Stiles informs him, smirking. “I’ll forgive you for not trying the stuff with cabbage in it, but not for not trying the chlodnik just because it was pink.”

“It was weird.” Derek folds his arms over his chest and looks petulant.

“You’re weird,” Stiles retorts. “Anyway, don’t mess with my grandmother; she survived the Holocaust, you know . . .”

Derek snorts in amusement. “Your grandmother is terrifying. It was beautiful. So was the look on McCall’s face.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He turns onto the road that will take them back into town. “Jesus. I kinda flipped my shit there, though.”

“If your eyes hadn’t changed, I would’ve let you go over the table at him,” Derek says. “So would Scott.”

“They only changed for a second,” Stiles grumbles. Then he frowns. “And I’m pretty sure that you shouldn’t be condoning me attacking an FBI agent with my bare hands as long as my eyes stay brown. That seems like a poor life strategy.”

Derek shrugs without remorse. “Most FBI agents, yes. Him? He deserves to have his face introduced to a brick wall.”

“Pretty sure I’d still get in trouble regardless of how much he ‘deserves’ it,” Stiles says, pulling into the parking lot of a Sonic.

Derek snorts. “Who would believe him if we said he had no idea how he came by those injuries? Melissa can be pretty convincing, I’m sure, and I’m willing to bet his own coworkers want to punch him.”

“Yeah, probably. I guess I don’t look like the type who would be able to floor an asshole like that.” Stiles cranks the window down and orders for both of them. He knows what Derek likes at every fast food restaurant in town. He pays and then settles back into his seat to wait for their food, pushing a hand through his hair. “The thing at the house, okay. That was just him being the same old asshole. But the interrogation . . .”

“He’s clearly got control issues.”

“That’s it,” Stiles says, one hand thumping against the steering wheel. “He’s not going to let this go. He’s going to keep digging and digging until he finds something.”

“But there’s nothing to find,” Derek points out. Then he thinks back to the way McCall had kept circling back to Peter in any way he could. Adding that to how tense and upset Stiles is, and the pieces click together. “Are you worried about him finding out what happened to Peter?”

Stiles is quiet for a long minute before he just says, “Yeah.”

Derek nods a little and doesn’t immediately reply. The window is open and they’re expecting someone to approach. Once the food had arrived and the windows are rolled back up, Derek says, “What is there for him to find?”

“I don’t know. I don’t. I just . . . can’t stop thinking about it. About what would happen if he found Peter’s body.”

“They’d have to identify him before they could do anything. And that’s only if he figures out where I buried him and can come up with enough evidence to get a warrant to start digging up my property.” From the tone of his voice, Derek clearly isn’t convinced that this is going to happen.

“I know that. I _know_ that. I know he’s got no reason to think he’s dead. McCall doesn’t suspect murder. He thinks we let him go because we felt his murders were justified, he thinks we helped hide him and that you know where he is. He’s way off base. Even if they found his body, we could just pin it on Gerard, who had just as much motive and a known history of trying to kill people when he didn’t get his way. I _know_ all this, I just . . .”

Derek thinks about that and about how to make Stiles translate thought into emotion. He decides to start with the basics. “Identifying the body would be basically impossible, even if they found out.”

Stiles picks at his cheeseburger. “Yeah, I guess werewolves don’t have a lot of dental records, huh.”

“No.” Derek shakes his head. “At this point there . . .” He stops awkwardly. They’re eating, after all, and he’s not sure how much Stiles will appreciate what he’s going to say while he’s munching on fries. Stiles just looks at him questioningly, so he continues, trying not to give too much detail. “There’s nothing left, really. Some hair, maybe, and bones. Certainly nothing they could take prints from, and no identifying features.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know. It’s not . . . it’s not about that, Der. You can’t tackle this with logic, not even with me.” He huffs out a sigh. “At least Gwen has gotten me to the point where I can figure out when I’m just fucked up about something. And having killed Peter is probably always going to be one of those things.”

Derek concedes with a nod. “Would it help if I promised not to let you assault him?”

“A little, but half the time we’re not even together, and that . . . that’s putting me on edge, too. I guess that a lot of this is because I’m not getting enough time with the pack.” Without realizing what he’s doing, Stiles rubs one hand up and down his arm. “I feel . . . really alone. Which is probably stupid. You guys are there if I need you.”

“No. It’s not stupid.” There’s no hesitation in Derek’s tone. “It’s hard going from constant contact to being cut off. Even if we’re available, it isn’t the same.” He reaches out and takes Stiles’ hand.

Stiles grips it hard. “I see them at school but it’s not the same. There’s always other people around, other stuff going on. I can’t just . . . relax with them and have pack cuddles. It’s just, God, it’s making me so fucking tense, and you know how I get when my hands are tied, and McCall is just . . . I want to just come down and say I’m a fucking alpha and he needs to step off. I’m used to being able to _do_ that now.”

“Well, we can arrange a pack movie night,” Derek says. “Your grandparents don’t expect you to spend every free moment with them. As for Agent Douchenozzle, maybe just let me handle him. I mean, that’s one of the things your lupa is for. To handle what you can’t. For whatever reason.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. The lupa and the enforcers. And I probably shouldn’t give him to Allison and Isaac, no matter how satisfying that would be.”

Derek gives an abrupt laugh. “He wouldn’t last five minutes against Allison.”

“You’re being way too generous.” Stiles sighs. “And no, my grandparents don’t expect me to entertain them every moment of the day, but that’s a good way to keep them from poking their noses into things. Dad doesn’t have a lot of time because of the investigation. And even when I’m not spending time with them, I’m buried in homework. The teachers all seem to have realized there’s less than two months of school left, and they’re piling it all on. Finstock would have us practicing until eight PM if there weren’t laws against it. I just have too much on my plate right now.”

“Use the homework as an excuse. Study groups. Or hell, have it be the truth. The whole pack can have homework nights. God knows Erica could use some supervision.”

“Put me in a room with Erica right now, and studying will be the _last_ thing on my mind,” Stiles groans. “I haven’t gotten laid in over a _month_.”

“Maybe you should,” Derek says.

“Yeah, that probably isn’t helping my stress level, either,” Stiles says. “I think right now I need pack more than I need a good screw, but . . .”

“Then we’ll find a way for you to spend more time with the pack,” Derek says. “We’ll get it done.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” For the first time, Stiles grins. “I thought Chris was gonna kiss my grandmother or something.”

“I think we were all ready to worship her, but the look on Chris’ face was pretty good.”

“Victoria almost had a facial expression, even.”

“I would have a stroke.”

Stiles laughs. It feels good. He manages to put Agent McCall and Peter Hale aside. “It’s not that late. Only, what, eight? Let’s go back to the den and watch the Cornetto trilogy. I’m texting everyone. They can show up or suffer the consequences.”

“Those are the most ridiculous movies,” Derek says, relaxing in increments as Stiles himself relaxes. “I don’t know how much popcorn we have.”

“Jake will know,” Stiles says, texting away. “If we don’t have much, we can dispatch people to pick some up. Lydia’s not exactly a zombie fan anyway.”

Derek’s eyes rolled. “So true.”

By the time they get back to the den, half the pack is already there. Boyd is making the popcorn and Scott is hauling in twelve-packs of soda from the car. The others show up not long after that and Derek puts the movie on before shifting into his fur. Stiles chooses to sit on the floor in front of the sofa so he can be surrounded by the pack on all sides. He leans against Derek’s bulk. Lydia curls up on one side of him, and Erica on the other. Isaac is sprawled out across Stiles’ legs. Stiles closes his eyes and falls asleep before the previews can finish rolling.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay my lovelies, this is the last post from me for a little while. I'm leaving tomorrow on an actual vacation! (Shocking, I know.) I'll be back on July 5th and regular posting will resume then. ^_^

 

Stiles is in the middle of practicing his theoretical salutatorian speech for his grandparents when his phone gets a text chime. He glances down at it to see that it’s his father. ‘Found something. Need your input. Come by the station asap.’ He grimaces a little, feeling his pulse quicken, and starts to wonder how he’s going to get out of the house without making his grandparents suspicious. He’s fairly sure that he shouldn’t advertise that he’s helping his father with police work.

He shoots Derek a quick text. ‘Need distraction so I can go see my dad.’

‘give me ten minutes,’ Derek replies.

Stiles sighs a little and tries not to pull his hair out while waiting. In the end, it isn’t Derek who shows up. It’s Erica, who brandishes a copy of Iron Man 3 with a broad grin. “I brought this just for you, Grandma Millie!” she says, and the elderly woman’s eyes light up and she gives a cackle of glee. Scott, Isaac, and Allison come in behind her. Stiles’ phone chimes, and he glances down to see a message from Derek that reads, ‘once the movie’s started, no one will notice if you disappear for a little while’.

So they get the movie started, and Stiles makes popcorn and serves drinks because, “I’ve seen this before, no worries”, and once the Mandarin is attacking Tony Stark’s Malibu home, he slips out. Derek is waiting for him in the Camaro.

“What’s going on?” he asks, as Stiles gets in the passenger seat.

“Dad apparently has a lead he wants my input on,” Stiles says.

Derek frowns. “Do you think he’s found some evidence that this is supernatural after all?” he asks.

“Only one way to find out,” Stiles says, and Derek nods and starts driving. The drive to the station passes in tense silence. Sandy’s obviously been warned that they were coming, because she smiles and waves them back when they come in. They find Sheriff Stilinski in his office, poring over a Beacon Hills High yearbook, of all things. “What’d you find?” Stiles asks.

Tom looks up and says, “Hey. All three of the people that have been killed besides him went to Beacon Hills High in the same year. Now this isn’t a lot to go on, but Bennett and Malone shared one class, and they shared it with Camden Lahey. Isaac’s older brother.”

“So that might be how Roger Lahey was connected,” Stiles says. He frowns a little. “Why, uh, why do you need me for this? Not that I’m not thrilled you’re including me, but – ”

“The class they shared was chemistry,” his father says. “Adrian Harris was their teacher. I thought you might want to go with me to talk to him.”

“Ooh, yeah, Harris _loves_ me,” Stiles says, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t know how Agent McCall will feel about me accompanying you on an interrogation, though.”

“Oh, well, I don’t want to bother such a busy man,” Tom says, slapping the yearbook shut.

Stiles gives a snort of laughter. “Where’s he at, anyway?”

Sheriff Stilinski hesitates, then sighs. “He’s currently looking over the files of the Peter Hale murders. I don’t know if he actually thinks there’s a connection to find, or if he’s just trying to find Peter Hale himself and make me look bad. Either way, it’ll keep him out of our hair while we do this.”

Stiles nods. He’s not thrilled with it, but he definitely approves of McCall being out of their hair. “Okay, let’s go.”

They take the cruiser. It’s past the dinner hour at this point, so there’s no reason that Harris would be anywhere but home. Derek manages to eel out of his clothes and into his fur and his vest on the drive over, so Stiles can bring him inside as Jack, the service dog. He doesn’t bother with the leash. If Harris says anything, Stiles will just slap him around.

Harris opens the door with his usual sour expression. “Sheriff,” he says, and then somewhat warily to Stiles, “Stiles. What can I do for you?”

“Had a few questions for you,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Off the record. Mind if we come in?”

Harris looks unhappy, but he stands back to let them inside. The place is just as messy as the last time that Stiles was there, but it looks better regardless. There’s an order to the chaos now. It’s cluttered but not filthy. Harris heads into the kitchen and pours them each a mug of coffee. His own service dog, a little terrier, trots along at his feet. “What’s this about?”

“These people who have been murdered,” Tom says. He sets down the photographs. “Do you recognize them?”

Harris adjusts his glasses. “They look somewhat familiar.”

“You had them in chemistry about eight years ago.”

“That was a long time ago,” Harris says, obviously still wary.

“Yeah, but we’re hoping you might be able to give us some insight,” Tom says. “So far, you seem to be the only connection that they have.”

Harris goes still, and then he says, “In that case, I think I’d better call my attorney. If you’ll excuse me – ”

The sheriff sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “Mr. Harris, you’re not a suspect. I just want – ”

“I’m not talking to law enforcement about murders you think I have a connection to without my lawyer present,” Harris says, “and that’s the end of the story.”

Stiles looks up from his coffee. “Will you talk to me?”

Harris’ jaw tightens. But then he nods and sits down again.

“Look,” Stiles says, “I know you didn’t do this, because I know that _you_ know I would never let you get away with it. You’re not stupid, and no offense, but you’re kind of a coward.”

“How is that not offensive?” Harris asks.

Stiles thinks about this. “Okay. Offense meant, you’re kind of a coward. But you aren’t a murderer and so far you’re our only lead. Anything you can tell us about these kids would be helpful. Did they hang out together, did they pick on other kids, did they fight over the same girl. Whatever you know.”

Harris sighs. Sheriff Stilinski offers him the yearbook and he takes it, looking at the pictures that Tom has circled. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes. They were friends. The three of them. They were athletic, on several of the sports teams, if I recall correctly.”

“Were they popular?” Stiles asks.

“As the idiotic jocks always are, yes,” Harris says. “But I don’t remember them being bullies. And I think I would. I always took a very harsh view on bullying.”

“Wow, that’s very hypocritical of you,” Stiles says cheerfully. Harris glowers at him. “Is there anyone else you can remember that they hung out with a lot?”

Harris frowns down at the pictures for a few moments. “I think I recall Camden Lahey being in their little clique. He died in Iraq, though, didn’t he?” He ran his fingers over the pictures. “Him, too, I think,” he says, tapping a rather homely boy named Sean Wilbanks. “I think they might have been on the swim team together.”

Sheriff Stilinski picks up the yearbook and flips through. “Damn,” he says, clearly surprised, and holds it out to Stiles. He takes a look and sucks in a breath. Each of the victims is listed on the roster, along with the coach: Roger Lahey. “Okay, we need to go pick this guy up. Thanks for your help, Mr. Harris.”

Stiles echoes his father’s thanks and then hustles out the door with him. Harris slams it behind them a little bit harder than necessary. Stiles’ father is already on his radio. “Got the address? Okay. Yeah. I want him picked up immediately. I’ll meet you down at the station.” He waits while Stiles and Derek pile back into the cruiser, and then takes off for the station. Derek gets back into his clothes while they drive.

They’ve only been back at the station for a few minutes when the sheriff’s phone rings and he grabs it. “Stilinski.”

“Sheriff, we’re at the Wilbanks place and it looks like we’ve got a probable 187 – ”

“Fuck,” Stiles bites out.

“Paramedics are on the way – ”

Stiles stays uncharacteristically silent while his father talks into the phone. He’s just hung up and is clearly about to say something when McCall comes in. “What’s this about another murder?” he snaps, frowning at Stiles as if to ask what he’s doing at the station.

Sheriff Stilinski folds his arms across his chest but takes the time to answer civilly. “I was able to locate someone who could be connected with the other victims. When I sent some guys down to his place to pick him up, turns out his place was flooded with carbon monoxide. He lives in a trailer in the woods, so it was easy enough to rig the gas generator and put it right by their window. From the sound of it, Wilbanks is probably gone but his wife might make it. Paramedics are on their way, and now, so am I.”

“And how did you find this connection?” McCall asks, his voice tight and unhappy.

“By looking,” Tom says.

McCall’s eyes narrow. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific, Tom.”

“With the exception of Roger Lahey, all the victims were the same age. It occurred to me that Lahey had another son who was the same age. I figured that might be a way to connect him.” Tom’s voice is short and clipped, making it clear that he thinks this is a waste of time. “As it turns out, two of the victims shared chemistry together, along with Camden Lahey. I went to talk to the teacher, to see if he knew of any other students who were part of the same clique. He identified Sean Wilbanks.”

“That was inappropriate,” McCall snapped. “You shouldn’t have gone to talk to any possible suspect without informing me. You should have brought this teacher down to the station.”

“I didn’t feel Adrian Harris was a plausible suspect. Among other . . . personal issues, he would have been at school, teaching, during the third and fourth murders. An absence would have been noticed.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Well, actually it was,” the sheriff says. “Because you told me I was welcome to ‘waste my time’ on whatever ‘wild goose chase’ I wanted to go on, while you were busy doing the ‘actual police work’ by trying to connect this set of murders to the ones Peter Hale committed in 2011.”

McCall’s gaze flickered to Stiles and Derek, who are still standing there silently, and it’s obvious that he’s wishing that they weren’t having this conversation in front of witnesses. “You can say whatever you want to try to justify – ”

Sheriff Stilinski hits two buttons on his phone, and suddenly McCall’s voice came out of it, clear and dripping contempt. “You can waste your time on whatever wild goose chase you want. I’ll be busy with the actual police work. If you don’t want to admit that Peter Hale is back in town, fine. And don’t bother keeping me informed. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to anything you have to say.”

Stiles can’t help it. He just rocks back and forth on his heels and bursts out excitedly, “Dad! You’re picking up my tricks, that’s awesome!”

McCall is slowly turning a darker and darker shade of red. Sheriff Stilinski gives Stiles’ shoulder an affectionate nudge and then tucks his phone away. “Now, Agent McCall, if you’d like to accompany me down to the scene of the most recent murder, perhaps we can learn something from it.”

“I can find it myself,” McCall says, slamming his way out of the office.

Derek shakes his head a little as he watches him go. “I understand Scott’s original attitude _so much better_ now.”

“I did tell you,” Stiles says. “Dad, are we – ”

“No,” Tom says. “Absolutely not. Not with McCall on the warpath. You get home.”

Stiles grimaces but agrees. He waits until his father is out of the office, then pulls out his phone and looks through his contacts, debating various pack members, before he dials Erica. Derek gives him a questioning look, but seems content to wait to find out what Stiles is up to. “What’s up, hot stuff?” Erica says into the phone.

“My father is on his way to the scene of the newest murder,” Stiles says. “It’s a trailer in the woods. I can’t go because Agent Douchebag is prowling around. But I’ll be damned if my dad won’t be safe. I want you and Isaac to go, in your fur. Stay out of sight, but get as close as you can. See if you smell anyone or anything interesting. But above all else, keep eyes on my dad. I don’t care if you have to shift right in front of McCall, you keep my father safe.”

“Understood,” Erica says. “Where are you gonna be?”

“I’m going to the hospital. It sounded like there might be a survivor. I’ll see what I can find out. When Dad leaves the crime scene, call me.”

“Okay,” Erica says.

“Lemme talk to Scott.”

A bare moment later, Scott says, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Will you do me a favor, stay at my place, keep my grandparents entertained? Just tell them that my dad is doing, I don’t know, cop stuff. If they ask where I am . . .”

“Dude, they decided like an hour ago that you had probably snuck off to shag Derek. Your grandmother has been speculating enough to make everyone here extremely uncomfortable and it’s a miracle Erica hasn’t said anything incriminating.”

“Oh, geez,” Stiles says.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. I can think of worse ways to spend an evening. Your grandparents are pretty cool, dude.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.”

He hangs up, tucks his phone away, and heads for the Camaro with Derek behind him. Derek drives while Stiles texts updates to the rest of the pack, just to let them know what’s going on and tell them that they’ll probably wind up meeting back at the den later, once everything has been settled.

The ER is busy, but they know Stiles there, better than he would like. He texts Melissa and then settles down in a chair in the corner. Almost an hour has gone by before an aide comes out and brings him back into a small, curtained off area. Melissa is standing there, sorting out tubes of blood. “Your father would have a fit if he knew you were here,” she says, without looking up.

“I’ll be good. I just want to know if there were any survivors.”

Melissa glances over and frowns. Then she nods. “Wilbanks was declared dead at the scene, but his wife and daughter were brought in. It doesn’t look good, though. The woman’s brain waves aren’t encouraging. The daughter is doing better – ”

“Daughter, what daughter?” Stiles asks.

Melissa pushes her hair out of her face. “Wilbanks and his wife had a two-year-old daughter. She was inside the house, so . . .”

“Jesus,” Derek mutters.

“Frankly, she’s probably get a better chance than her mother does,” Melissa says. “Babies are resilient. Their brains aren’t fully developed yet, so when there’s an injury to them, sometimes they can rewire things around it. It’s impossible to say at this point. With the mom . . . the odds that she’ll ever regain any sort of functioning are pretty slim.”

Stiles’ jaw tightens. “Thanks,” he says, and Melissa nods and shoos them out of the waiting room. Derek’s quiet as they go back out to the car.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is obviously shaken by the events of the past several hours, and nothing can stop the pack from gathering at the Stilinski household while they wait to hear news from Sheriff Stilinski. Fortunately, Tomasz and Milena are the early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of people, and by the time most of the pack has showed up, they’re asleep. Erica and Isaac are the exceptions, because they’re out in the woods, but around eight they arrive home, saying Sheriff Stilinski is back at the station.

Sheriff Stilinki gets home about ten o’clock. He looks at the gathering of anxious faces and sighs. “If I had news, I would tell you,” he says. “But so far we don’t know a lot. The killer sabotaged the gas generator and fed a tube into the trailer’s ventilation system. He undoubtedly meant to remove it so it would just look like an accident, but it spooked him when my guys showed up and he left before the job was finished. The good news is, he left some shoe prints, so we finally have some physical evidence, even if it’s not a lot to go on.”

“Why does this one have collateral damage?” Allison asks. “None of the others have.”

Tom gives a little shrug. “Crimes of opportunity. He focuses on the victim, chooses the best way to make it look accidental. For the others, that didn’t involve collateral damage. Which isn’t that surprising, actually. None of the others were married. They all lived alone. So killing them alone was easy. Could our killer have chosen an evening when the wife and child weren’t there? Probably. But he didn’t bother.”

“How are they doing?” Danny asks.

The sheriff’s face is grim. “They think they’re going to live, but so far the odds that Jessica will wake up aren’t encouraging. The toddler is doing a little better, but she’ll probably need a lot of care. And there’s no one in the family to provide it. Paternal grandparents – grandfather is incarcerated and grandmother is deceased. Maternal grandparents live in Idaho and have already said they won’t be able to take her due to health and financial issues. No aunts, no uncles. She’s going to wind up in the foster care system.”

“Geez, how do you even tell a two-year-old that their dad is dead and their mother is in a coma,” Erica mutters.

“Do we know of any other possible victims?” Mac asks.

“The swim team that year had fourteen members,” Tom says, and checks his notes. “Three of them have moved away and Camden Lahey died in Iraq, leaving us with ten. Four have been killed and Jessica Wilbanks is number five. We brought the other five in for questioning. Three of them have solid alibis for varying murders, and none of them have any sort of motive we can ascertain. But one of the young women said something I found interesting. She said the four killed were the four best swimmers, and Lahey’s favorites. I pulled some records and found out she was right. All of those killed did very well at the State meet that year, along with Camden.”

“So they were kind of a clique within the team,” Stiles says, and his father nods. “Sore losers?”

“I’m sure there were some, but that’s a hell of a thing to hold a grudge over this many years later,” Tom says. “No, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that this stems back to one event. They saw something, or did something, that connects them all.”

“Like an ‘ _I Know What You Did Last Summer_ ’ type of thing,” Erica says. Sheriff Stilinski gives her a blank look. “Like they hit an old homeless dude with their car and he’s come back from the dead to hunt them down. Only without the ‘coming back from the dead’ part.” She pauses. “Probably. This _is_ Beacon Hills.”

“They didn’t hit someone with their car,” Stiles says suddenly. “They suffocated someone. All these crimes have that in common. The method varies, but lack of oxygen is always the direct cause of death.”

Tom nods slowly. “I’ll go back into the police reports from that year. See if anyone was injured in that sort of way – or even killed. Since this is Beacon Hills.” He looks at Erica and Isaac. “You two were at the scene. Did you notice anything? See anything, smell anything?”

“God, everything smelled like the gas from that generator,” Isaac says. “I couldn’t smell a thing past it.”

“Same,” Erica says.

“Okay.” Sheriff Stilinski gives a huge yawn. “I’m beat. I’m going to get some sleep so I can get a fresh start in the morning. The rest of you should do the same.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Even with the entire pack crammed into his bedroom, wolves curled up in every corner, Stiles sleeps restlessly. He wakes twice from nightmares. The second time, Derek shakes him awake before he can start screaming and attract the attention of his grandparents. Stiles decides to get up at that point. He goes downstairs and starts baking. Derek goes with him, but winds up falling asleep on the sofa.

When the muffins are out of the oven, Stiles decides to go down to the hospital. His father is already up, and has left for the police station. He has things to do, and he promises to keep Stiles up to date. The pack leaves through Stiles’ bedroom window. Even Jake can scale that easily enough. Several of them decide to accompany Stiles to the hospital. Scott’s mother is working an early shift, and he decides to go along and bring her breakfast.

“Hey, guys,” she says, accepting the bag with a tired smile.

“How are the victims from yesterday doing?” Scott asks, giving her a hug.

Melissa takes the cup of coffee that Stiles is holding out to her as she returns the hug with one arm. “Mrs. Wilbanks is in a coma,” she says. “But the toddler is definitely doing better. She hasn’t woken up entirely, but her reflexes are good and she can be aroused when prompted.”

“Do you mind if we just hang around for a while?” Stiles asks.

“Don’t you have stuff you should be doing?” she asks, arching her eyebrows at him.

“We’re going to have a homework party,” he tells her. “I’ve got to catch up in about a million different things.”

“Okay,” Melissa says.

They settle down in one of the smaller courtyards. Stiles tells the others that they don’t have to stay, but of course they do. Erica moans and pulls out eighteen different assignments. Lydia is working on something involving astrophysics that has nothing to do with high school. Scott and Isaac have their heads put together over a history paper. Danny has his laptop and is working on a computer science project.

It’s quiet for a few hours. They all have a lot to do. Stiles has enough Adderall on board that once he gets going, he’s able to stay focused. Around one o’clock, Melissa comes into the courtyard and tells them that she’s going off shift soon, but the girl – Tanya, her name is – is awake and that they can look in if they want. “Just for a minute, and don’t upset her,” she tells them.

They don’t want to crowd her, so the group of them go up to the pediatrics ward but decide only Stiles will poke his head in. As soon as they get through the door, they see Jackson sitting there, his three-legged dog Wilma sitting patiently at his feet. She looks over when they come in, and her mouth opens in a lolling grin, tail wagging. Jackson sees them, scowls, but gives them an abrupt nod.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, scratching Wilma behind the ears. She licks his hand.

Jackson juts his chin towards the door to Tanya’s room. “Mom and Dad were talking about empty nest syndrome when I went to school. So when Danny texted me last night about the little girl, I mentioned it to them and . . .”

Stiles brightens a little. “That’s nice,” he says. “I’m glad someone’s looking out for her. You know, even if it’s you.”

Jackson gives him an annoyed look. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. But then his gaze softens. “The doctor tried to discourage them. Said her prognosis is pretty uncertain. And my mom said . . . they would take her no matter what. Even if all they did was hold her today and pay for her funeral tomorrow.”

It’s the same thing they had said about Jackson, and in his own way, he’s obviously feeling pretty emotional about the whole thing, so Stiles doesn’t want to push him. He just nods a little, and Danny gives Jackson a friendly shoulder squeeze.

Since Jackson’s parents are in with the child and are having a conference with her doctor about how long she might be there and what sort of care she’s going to need, Stiles decides to wait before poking his head in. He’s sick of doing homework, so they sit in a tight cluster and exchange theories on the murderer.

“You’re on the swim team, right?” Isaac asks Jackson. “Do you guys have any urban legends, anything like that?”

Stiles perks up at this. He hadn’t thought of current swim team members as a source of information, but God knows the lacrosse team has their stories, like the kid that Finstock yelled at until he threw up, or the (probably untrue) story of the kid who had overdosed on a bus ride home after an away game and nobody had noticed he was dead until they got back to school.

Jackson frowns, and absently rubs at Wilma’s ears. “I dunno. Once an upperclassman said that the reason the team sucked so bad was because we were cursed by a kid who had drowned in the pool.”

The pack exchanges a look. “Did they say anything else about it?” Scott asks.

“Nope. Wait.” Jackson chews on his lower lip for a minute. “Yeah. That it was back when Lahey was the coach. They had a team who did really well at State that year, but every year since then, we took home fuckall.” He shrugs. “It’s just a fucking story. The team sucked because it had sucky swimmers. It doesn’t suck anymore, because now it has me. I took the gold in the 200 free and the 100 fly.”

“Yes, you’re quite an athlete,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes. Jackson scowls furiously at her.

“But,” Stiles says, “this fits some pieces together. The kids who have been killed _did_ do really well that year.” He starts texting to his father. “They were all seniors, so they graduated, and I guess good swimmers didn’t replace them. But if there was some sort of accident . . .”

“Drowning is a sort of suffocation,” Scott says thoughtfully. He looks at Jackson. “Anything else?”

“Dude, why are you asking me?” Jackson says. He points to Isaac and says, “Your dad was the fucking coach, he never told you this story?”

“No,” Isaac says, shaking his head. He’s frowning a little. “And he never encouraged me to go into swimming, either. I wanted to – because Camden was so good at it. But when I talked about it, he always told me to shut up. And – we used to have a pool in our backyard. But the year after Camden graduated, my dad filled it in.”

“Why would he do that?” Erica asks.

“To get rid of evidence,” Stiles says. “Nobody drowned at school. They drowned at his house.”

Isaac’s eyes widen. “After Cam joined the team, my dad always had the best swimmers at the house after the State meet, to throw a party. You know, it was nice for Cam, just a pool party with his friends, really. Maybe something happened.”

“Were you there?”

“No,” Isaac says. “I wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. I stayed upstairs in my room. Cam talked my dad into letting me have a friend over so I wouldn’t get bored or lonely.”

“Did you, that last year?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah,” Isaac says. “I did. It was Matt. Matt Daehler.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, we're back!

 

“Look, I will be the first to agree that Matt is a complete creeper,” Allison says, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s capable of murder.”

Isaac is frowning. “Yeah, but I wonder if he saw something,” he says, “because after that, he never really came over anymore. I guess I thought my dad had probably yelled at him one too many times. My dad was always a jerk to my friends. But . . .”

They’re interrupted when a nurse comes up, gives the group of them a suspicious eyeballing, and then lets herself into Tanya’s room. There’s hushed conversation inside. Several of the werewolves stiffen. “What is it?” Stiles asks quietly.

“The mother died,” Derek says, just as quietly. “She coded and they couldn’t resuscitate her.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “That sucks, but . . . it might be better, in the long run.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Finally, Isaac says, “Look, if Matt saw something, he might be in danger.”

“But if he’s the murderer, we can’t risk tipping him off,” Scott points out.

“If he’s the murderer, he’s not a ghost,” Stiles says, “which means that we can tell my father and have him do this through official channels. If Matt’s the murderer, there will be evidence. He’s been good about cleaning up after himself but he left shoe prints at the Wilbanks trailer since he got interrupted. There might be other evidence there. Someone will have seen him at the coffee shop where he switched Bennett’s drink with decaf.”

“He’ll have pictures,” Allison says. “I would bet any amount of money. And I think this weights it in favor of him being the murderer. He’s good at surveillance. It took me weeks to notice he had been following me around. _Me_. He could have followed someone like Wilbanks for months without the guy ever realizing he was there.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Which means if my dad can get a warrant to search his stuff, he’d find them. We can do this quietly, gather proof before he realizes that we’re onto him.”

“But what if it’s _not_ him?” Isaac asks anxiously. “What if we’re leaving him in danger?”

Before anyone can come up with an answer, Derek’s phone rings. He frowns down at it. “It’s the lawyer,” he says, and picks it up cautiously. “Hello?”

Stiles leans in to hear Omar on the other end. “Mr. Hale, this is Omar Guerrero. Are you at home?”

“No,” Derek says, frowning.

“You’d better get there immediately. Agent McCall has obtained a warrant to search the premises, and he’ll probably be there in less than twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Derek says, and gets to his feet, hanging up the phone.

“That son of a bitch – ” Stiles starts.

Derek looks at him like he’s considering telling Stiles that he shouldn’t be there when this happens. Then he realizes that he would never win that argument, and he would waste precious time having it. So he turns to the rest of the pack and says, “You guys should get home. We shouldn’t have the pack hanging around when McCall is there. Isaac, I wouldn’t worry too much about Matt. I think if he saw something, the killer probably doesn’t realize it. You stick with Scott. Stiles and I will keep the rest of you posted.”

They nod and disperse. Stiles is already on the phone with his father to let him know what’s up, at least on the subject of McCall and Derek. Sheriff Stilinski responds with profanity that Stiles didn’t even know he knew. “I don’t have time for this, for fuck’s sake, I have to get down to the hospital – ”

“We were just at the hospital,” Stiles says, as Derek peels out of the parking lot. “Why do you need to go there?”

“Because Jessica Wilbanks died, and it looks like it might not have been directly due to the cerebral injuries she suffered yesterday,” Tom says.

“You’re _shitting_ me,” Stiles says.

“No. One of the nurses noted some irregularities. I’ve got to get down there.”

Stiles’ jaw tightens. “We’ll handle McCall,” he says.

“ _I’ll_ handle McCall,” Derek says firmly.

Stiles nods a little, obviously reluctant, but doing it. “Okay, but Dad, we’ve got a suspect. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Well, she isn’t getting any deader and a couple people have already gone to preserve the scene,” he says. “I told McCall about it, and he said he would be there shortly. I guess he feels like harassing Derek takes precedence.”

Stiles swallows his rage and gives his father a quick summary about what they’ve put together from Jackson’s knowledge of the swim team and Isaac’s memories of his childhood. “I don’t know if that will be enough to get a warrant to search Matt’s things,” Tom finally says. “It’s sheer conjecture, based almost entirely on rumor.”

“Well, fuck, McCall got a warrant for Derek’s place with less to go on than that,” Stiles snaps.

“McCall’s got friends in high places,” Sheriff Stilinski says, “and he doesn’t mind bending the rules. Or stepping on them. I can’t do the same thing with Matt.”

Stiles pushes a hand through his hair. “Evidence gained through illegal means but submitted to the police anonymously is admissible, right? That was key in Gerard’s trial. Because Danny helped me hack his credit card.”

“Yes . . .” Tom says, somewhat ominously.

“Great,” Stiles says.

His father sighs. “Stiles, don’t – please don’t break into Matt’s place and steal his camera. I’ll figure something out. Let me talk to the coffee shop employees and the guy who delivered Malone’s Chinese food, see if I can place him at the scene of any of the crimes. Then I can get a warrant and we can do this officially, without risking you being arrested. Either way, nothing’s going to happen before Monday.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. They’re on the access road to the Hale house now. “I’ll call you after McCall is gone.”

Derek waits for Stiles to hang up before asking, “There are permits for all the weapons, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Chris knows his shit. Everything in the house is legal.”

Derek nods. “And you don’t have any wolfsbane in the den?” He’s fairly sure the answer is no. Stiles always warns them about something that dangerous being there.

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “It’s all at home. As for the security, well, he can just bite me. But he probably won’t notice the pit. Not if we let him into through the main gate in his car.” He fidgets and says, “I suppose we can just leave the chain-link fence open for now. It’s not like it really stops anyone determined anyway. And then we won’t have to walk all the way down to let him in.”

“It would be annoying to make him wait,” Derek muses.

“Knowing this asshole, he’d take out bolt cutters and just come in himself anyway,” Stiles says. He shakes his head a little as Derek stops the car and gets out to open the fence. He’s tense and edgy as Derek lets them into the house. He sits down in one of the dining room chairs, stands up, opens the refrigerator, closes it without getting anything.

Derek watches him, not sure what to do that would help. All of his normal coping mechanisms like baking or sparring or even just driving, take time that they don’t have. “We’ll be fine. He’ll come in, he’ll act like an asshole, I’ll piss him off even more and then we’ll kick him out.”

“He has no God damn right,” Stiles says, fists clenching at his sides.

“Nope,” Derek agrees. “But while he’s wasting his time here, your dad can work on actually solving this so we can get rid of McCall all the sooner.”

Stiles takes a breath and slowly lets it out. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to . . . chop something uncomfortably phallic while we wait. And possibly while he’s here. I might just follow him around. Chopping.”

Derek cracks a smile at that. “I think that might be a threat.”

“I’m allowed to prepare dinner in the comfort of my boyfriend’s home,” Stiles says, rooting around in the refrigerator and coming out with a bag of carrots. “Maybe I’ll _grate_ them.”

“The following him around, I meant. Other than that, chop or grate away.”

“Why wouldn’t we be allowed to follow him? We have a right to see what he’s doing inside our house.” Stiles slams a cutting board down on the counter.

“Oh, I plan to follow him,” Derek says. “In fact, I don’t intend to let him touch anything. I don’t want his stench on our things. I just don’t think you’re allowed to follow him around, while chopping.”

“What about while grating?” Stiles asks, almost joking, but before Derek can answer, the doorbell rings. It’s followed by a solid rapping and the sound of McCall’s voice proclaiming his identity and that he has a warrant. Stiles’ mouth tightens but he manages to somehow hold his tongue while Derek walks over to the door.

“Let me see it,” is how Derek greets Agent McCall.

McCall holds out the paper for Derek to examine, smirking. Derek takes it from him and says, “Give me a minute to look this over.” With that, he steps back and promptly closes the door in McCall’s face, and locks it. He brings the warrant to Stiles in the kitchen. “I’m sure it’s real, but you might as well check,” he says, since Stiles knows more about warrants than he does.

Behind them, the doorknob rattles and then McCalls gives another sharp knock. “Open up, Mr. Hale.”

“I’m allowed to examine the warrant,” Derek calls back. “You can wait a minute.”

Stiles drops it on the counter. “Let’s just get this shit over with.”

Derek concedes, heading back to the door and opening it again, stepping aside so McCall can come in. His expression is just as flat as it was during his interrogation. McCall steps in and gives him his usual insincere smile. “Nice place,” he says, pulling on some rubber gloves.

“I still don’t care about your opinion,” Derek says.

McCall takes this in stride as he walks into the kitchen. “Stiles, what a surprise to find you here.”

Stiles turns around and brandishes a carrot. “Listen up, fucktruck,” he snaps, “I don’t have to like you being here and I don’t have to be polite. As long as I don’t physically or verbally threaten you, I can be as pissed off as I want. Now leave me alone. I’m making dinner, and Peter Hale isn’t hiding in the God damned pantry.”

“I’ll decide that,” McCall says, walking towards the aforementioned pantry.

Derek slides in front of him. “You don’t get to touch anything. You want a door opened, tell me and I’ll do it.” He pulls open the pantry. It’s large, but filled completely with shelves and bulk containers of food. “Do you want to inventory the cereal?” he asks, with more than a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

“Maybe I will,” McCall says, still smiling. “I thought you lived alone. What’s with the twenty pound bag of rice and the twelve bottles of juice?”

“I have these people called friends. Most likely a foreign concept to you, I know,” Derek says, closing the pantry door.

“More like a surprise. You have quite the reputation in town.” McCall starts down the hallway and heads into the rec room.

“Grate an extra carrot,” Derek tells Stiles, before following. But he’s not surprised when Stiles picks up the vegetables and follows them. McCall doesn’t take much notice of the rec room or of the library/study that’s next door, but as expected, he has a lot of interest in the armory.

“This seems a little excessive,” he says, studying the racks of weaponry.

“Is that an opinion? I think I’ve made my feelings on your opinions clear,” Derek says. He’s not about to let McCall bait him into a reaction.

“I’ll need to see the licenses for all of these,” McCall says, with a nasty smile.

With a shrug, Derek pulls a three-ring binder off a shelf and hands it over. McCall reaches out and grabs one of the room’s two metal chairs to take a seat. “This might be a few minutes.”

“All right.” Derek turns the other chair so he can straddle the back and face McCall. He sits, and stares. Stiles gives a little shrug, sets down his cutting board, and starts chopping again.

“That’s very distracting,” McCall tells him.

“Cry about it,” Stiles replies.

Derek snorts in amusement, but the stare doesn’t waver. He continues to stare the entire time that McCall flips through the folder and matches each permit to each weapon shown. Some of them he obviously doesn’t seem to recognize well enough, but he doesn’t want to admit that and ask for help identifying them. Finally, he says, “It all seems to be in order. Why do you have so many weapons, Mr. Hale?”

Derek gives him the same unblinking stare. “This is America.”

Stiles gives a snort of laughter.

McCall’s jaw twitches, but then he stands and continues his tour through the house. The majority of the upper floor is taken up by the bedroom, which, of course, doesn’t look like any normal bedroom. Instead of a bed, it has the sunken area full of pillows and blankets, similar to the ‘love pit’ by the fireplace downstairs but on a much larger scale. “This is an . . . interesting room.”

“If you say so,” Derek says. He doesn’t want him in the bedroom, but he knows that trying to stop him will only make him more determined. McCall walks in, though he stays to the edges of the room, and then looks into the bathroom. There’s a walk-in closet, as well as a closed one for linens, which he reaches for.

“Hey.” Derek’s voice is sharp. “What did I say about touching things that don’t belong to you?”

“Do you have something to hide?” McCall asks, pulling the closet door open regardless of Derek’s instructions. It contains a multitude of towels and blankets, some laundry detergent, and nothing else.

“No.” Derek moves between McCall and the closet, although he keeps his hands to himself. “Just because I’m required to let you search my place doesn’t mean you’re allowed to do whatever you want. I don’t like having my things touched. I said I would open things if you asked. If you want to see in here, you can ask. And keep your hands to yourself,” Derek concludes with a glower. He looks about as moveable as a brick wall.

McCall just smiles, although the smile is somewhat brittle, and says, “You’re really going to enjoy it when I start dusting for prints, aren’t you.”

Derek grins and says, “I’m going to enjoy it about as much as you’ll enjoy running them all down.”

“There’s really only one set of prints I’m looking for,” McCall says.

“OH MY GOD,” Stiles shouts. “He’s not here, okay? He’s NOT FUCKING HERE – ”

“Stiles?” Derek says, taking a small step towards Stiles, but then stopping. He doesn’t want to give way and let McCall do whatever he wants. “Stiles.” It’s firmer the second time, because he can already tell how ugly this is going to get if McCall turns on his alpha.

“So why don’t you just pack up your shit and go crawling back to whatever black hole you came from!” Stiles continues shouting, fists clenched at his sides, his entire body vibrating with rage. “Peter’s never been in this God damned house! This house didn’t even _exist_ when Peter – ”

“Stiles!” Derek moves away from the closet door and towards Stiles. The point he’s trying to make is in no way worth letting Stiles continue. He takes a chance and steps between McCall and Stiles, cutting off his line of sight. He grabs Stiles by both shoulders and gives him a hard little shake before he can finish his sentence. “You said you would let me handle this, so _let me_.”

Stiles’ entire body goes taut for a few moments and crimson flares in his eyes before he wrestles himself back under control. “Jesus fucking – ” he strangles out, before flinging the cutting board and all the carrots down to the floor and storming out of the room. Derek takes a deep breath, forces himself not to follow, and turns sharply but silently back to McCall.

“He seems upset,” McCall observes, smiling.

Derek takes a few steps closer until he’s barely an inch away, staring at McCall right in the eye. “You are one of the worst people I’ve ever met. As you seem to love pointing out that my uncle was a serial killer, take that into account when you think about the scale you’re being measured on.” He takes a step back. “You have the right to search my house, but you do not have the right to taunt me or Stiles, and if you keep it up I will call my lawyer and the sheriff’s department and have them send someone over just to watch you.”

“If you feel that’s necessary.” McCall turns and walks out of the room. For the rest of the tour, Derek simply follows him, stares at him, and offers one or two word answers. He dusts for prints in the guest room – which is obviously where he thinks Peter has been staying – and the armory. Then he heads into the kitchen. Derek is afraid that Stiles will be there, but the room is empty. McCall takes prints there as well, leaving smears of black dust everywhere. Then he says, “Well, I’ll be in touch,” with a nasty smile, before heading towards the door.

“I’ll see you off the property,” Derek says, grabbing his car keys and following McCall out. He returns the smile with a brilliant one of his own, the one he knows makes people uncomfortable. It doesn’t seem to faze McCall, though. He gets back into his car and starts pulling down the narrow dirt lane. Derek follows until he gets past the fence, closes it and does the padlock, and then drives back to the house. He arms the electric fence and then goes looking for Stiles. He’s not hard to find. His rage draws Derek like a moth to flame.

Punching bags apparently aren’t enough for Stiles in his current frame of mind. He’s taken the old mannequin that Scott used to teach them all CPR, strung it up on a tree branch, and is systematically beating it into pieces with his spare baseball bat. He’s clearly been out there doing it the entire time McCall was there, because his T-shirt is soaked with sweat and exhaustion is trickling down the bond as steadily as fury. He doesn’t look up as Derek approaches.

“I wanted to tear his throat out. With my teeth,” Derek says, when he’s sure Stiles can see him. “So, it’s not you.”

“Good to know,” Stiles grits out.

Derek watches him in silence for a minute. An arm falls off the mannequin. “I don’t think any candy will fall out, no matter how many times you hit it.”

Stiles lets out a startled burst of laughter. He lets the baseball bat touch the ground and leans on it for a few moments, just breathing. Finally, he says, “He’s gone? You’re sure?”

“I followed him all the way to the gate and locked it after him. If he comes back in, he’s trespassing, and I’ll take joy in having him arrested.”

“Okay.” Stiles pushes both hands through his hair. “Sorry that I, uh, flung carrot all over the bedroom.”

“They’re just carrots. At least you didn’t fling the knife.”

“I guess I’ll go clean that up . . .”

Derek moves closer and pulls Stiles into a hug. “Just leave them. It’ll be a crunchy snack before bed.”

The idea of the pack nosing around in the blankets and finding carrot chunks to eat makes Stiles smile again, despite himself. He lets Derek take his weight, leaning against him. “I . . . I need a fucking break. I can have a break, right?”

“Yeah. We’ll call the pack and order takeout.” Derek nuzzles into Stiles’ neck. “Clean up and then watch stupid movies.”

“Did he make a huge mess?” Stiles asks, his jaw tightening as he takes out his phone and starts texting the pack.

“Not really. Mostly fingerprint powder. But I don’t want his scent settling.” Derek keeps his arm around Stiles. “He mostly behaved after I told him what I thought of him and threatened to have Omar or one of your dad’s guys come baby-sit his ass.”

“That’s . . . that’s great, Derek.” Stiles doesn’t look like he feels much better, but he leaves the mannequin and starts trudging towards the house. Derek follows, not exactly sure what he should say. He hopes an evening with the pack will help. “Jesus, I hope we’re right about Matt,” Stiles finally says, letting himself into the house. “If we can solve this, we can get McCall the hell out of town.”

“I never thought I’d see the day that I hoped someone was a psycho killer, but I’m so with you,” Derek says.

Stiles’ phone rings as Derek closes the door behind them. He glances down at it and sees that the number is his own home phone. He blinks at it for a few moments and then answers and says, “Hello?”

“Hello, Przemysław, darling,” Milena’s voice says, and Stiles winces as he realizes that he’s left his grandparents alone all day without even a word about where he was going. “I hope you’re having a lovely time with your friends! I just wanted to know if you were planning on being home for dinner because if not Tomasz and I were going to go out to this charming Greek deli we found last week. I know my Tommy will be working ‘til all hours of the night, bless him, but I wasn’t sure about you.”

“Oh, uh . . .” Stiles finally comes to the realization that he’s been worrying way too much about his grandparents, who clearly don’t require him to explain his whereabouts every minute of every day. “No, I think I’m going to eat over at Derek’s.”

“Okay, sweetheart, we won’t wait up for you,” Milena asks, and Tomasz guffaws somewhere in the background. “But tomorrow you should make sure you’re home for dinner, I’m going to make kapuśniak, all right?”

“Okay, Grandma, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stiles says, and hangs up. They start cleaning up the black dust that McCall had left everywhere.

The other pack members start to show up and help out. Erica, however, takes one look at Stiles, points at him, and says, “You. With me. You need to unwind in the worst sort of way.”

“I can barely move,” Stiles says.

“Just this one time, I’ll do all the work,” Erica tells him, and several pack members giggle.

Derek looks up. “Go fuck in the guest room. It smells like that douchecanoe. Go cover it up.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Erica says, taking Stiles by the hand and dragging him out of the room.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles decides that the next day is going to be a break for him. He’s mostly caught up on his homework, his grandparents clearly couldn’t care less what he’s doing with his time as long as he’s home in time for dinner, and his father will probably be at the station for most of the day. He doesn’t want to hear about murders or obnoxious FBI agents. He sleeps late and then makes the pack breakfast. They gorge themselves on pancakes and bacon and then lie around like slugs. Stiles plays video games and surfs the internet and wastes the entire morning and afternoon. It’s awesome.

Around four o’clock, he leaves for home. Derek asks if he should come, and Stiles laughs and says, “Two words: sauerkraut soup.”

Derek looks horrified. “I don’t know if I’ll even be able to sleep in the same room with you after that.”

“I’ll brush my teeth twice,” Stiles says, amused. “Seriously, though. Just creep in through the window after nine. I’ll see you then.”

He drives home and finds his grandmother already in the kitchen, so he helps out there and tells her about what he was doing – homework and video games seem surprisingly interesting to her – until his father gets home. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of the soup but knows better than to argue with his mother. “I had a thought about that warrant,” he says to Stiles.

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles asks, his mouth full of apple.

“You said Allison thought he had been following her around and taking her picture, right?” Tom asks. “Why don’t we have her file an official complaint? Then I can get a warrant to examine Matt’s camera. It won’t be because of the murders, but hey, if I find incriminating evidence while I’m there . . .”

“Oh, man, that’s a great idea,” Stiles says. “You’re awesome.” He pulls out his phone and starts texting Allison. “Did you come up with anything else?”

“Well, we were able to place Matt at Tucker Malone’s garage,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “He got an oil change there that morning. Nobody at the coffee shop remembers seeing him, but that was so long ago now . . . but if we can get the warrant, find pictures, match the shoe prints, that might not matter. We might not be able to get enough for all the murders, but I think we can get him for Malone, Simmons, and the Wilbankses.”

“Yeah, what happened to Jessica Wilbanks?” Stiles asks.

“As far as the nursing staff can tell, someone went in and simply unplugged her respirator, waited for her to code, then plugged it back in and skipped out before anyone saw him.” Tom shrugs. “Again, difficult to prove, but even without that, if we can prove that he’s the one responsible for messing with their generator, we can still get him on her murder.”

Stiles nods. Milena looks up from her cooking and says, “My goodness, you two, is that really dinner conversation? Stiles, why don’t you set the table?”

“Okay, Grandma.” Stiles picks up a stack of bowls and heads out to the table. About ten minutes later, they’re all sitting around eating, and further discussion of murders has been tacitly forbidden. Milena is instead asking if Stiles has any plans for the summer, saying it’s his last free summer and he should do something fun, and he’s welcome to join them in their RV, they’re thinking of camping in Yosemite for a week and then going to Las Vegas. Stiles tries to picture his grandparents in America’s Playground, and has surprisingly little trouble.

They’re about halfway through the meal when the doorbell rings. Tom shoots his son a questioning look, to ask if he’s expecting anyone from the pack, and he shakes his head. “I’ll get it,” the sheriff says, before Stiles can get to his feet. Milena says something about people who interrupt the dinner hour as he walks down the hallway. The door opens, then closes.

Sheriff Stilinski slowly backs into the kitchen. His hands are raised. Matt is in front of him, pointing a gun at his chest.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just think, guys, I could have left you on *that* cliffhanger before my vacation! =D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes story climaxes come easily to me and sometimes they're really difficult.... this was one of the most fun to write, and I really love how it turned out. Hope you guys enjoy it as well. <3

Stiles jolts to his feet, and Matt snaps, “Don’t!” and Stiles freezes, seeing the way his hand tightens on the trigger.

“My God, Tommy, are you – ”

“Shut up!” Matt says. “Put your hands on the table. Both of you. Stiles, don’t fucking move or I’ll blow your father’s head off.”

“Matt,” Sheriff Stilinski says, “it’s Matt, right? I can guarantee you that there’s a solution that doesn’t involve a gun.”

“Well, there would have been, if you guys didn’t have to poke your nose into where it doesn’t belong,” Matt snaps, keeping the muzzle of the gun pressed against Tom’s chest.

Stiles takes a deep breath and looks right at Matt. He hears Tomasz’ sharp intake of breath and he knows that his eyes are bright crimson, knows that there’s no power in the universe strong enough to keep them brown while his father’s life is in danger. “Matt,” he says, “I will give you _one chance_ to put down that gun and stop threatening my father. If you don’t take it, you’ll be leaving here in a body bag. You have no idea how far in over your head you are right now.”

“You think you’re such a God damned badass,” Matt sneers at him. “I’m not afraid of you. I know you and your friends are all werewolves, I know that there’ve been trolls and faeries and sorcerers wandering around. Beacon Hills is like a freakin’ Halloween party every full moon. But you couldn’t stop me from killing the people I needed to kill, and you can’t stop me now.”

“Do you want to fucking bet?” Stiles growls.

“Okay,” Matt says, “I’ll take that bet.” His arm swings around and he pulls the trigger.

Stiles stumbles backwards, knocks over his chair, and winds up on his back on the floor. He hears Milena scream, and his father swears, and then Matt says, “No, don’t, don’t fucking move! Get back!”

“I’m okay,” Stiles chokes out, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t. He puts a hand on his chest, moves it down until he encounters the damp warmth he had been expecting. He can smell the blood, can taste it in his mouth. He thinks that might be because he bit down on his own tongue. Milena’s on her knees next to him, pressing her napkin into his abdomen, and he chokes back a whimper. Matt is still yelling, so Stiles says, louder, “I’m okay, do what he says.”

His vision clears and he sees that Tomasz is still sitting at the kitchen table, frozen, and Matt still has the gun pressed into his father’s chest. There’s a look of mutiny on Sheriff Stilinski’s face, but so far he’s toeing the line. Matt gestures at Stiles with his other hand and says, “Get up, Stilinski.”

“What? Matt, he can’t – ” the sheriff starts.

“Shut up!” Matt yells, right in his face.

“Matt,” Stiles says, taking care to keep his voice slow and calm, “I’m shot. I’m not getting up.”

“He needs a doctor,” Milena says, her wrinkled hands clenching down desperately in the napkin she has pressed against Stiles’ wound.

“You think so?” Matt asks. “Get the fuck up, Stilinski.”

“Listen to me!” Stiles tries to shout, but it comes out more as a wheeze. “I’m not a werewolf, okay?”

“Oh, give me a – ”

“No, really,” Stiles says. “I, I’m not trying to say that werewolves aren’t real or you’re delusional or that I’m not part of a pack, I am, okay, but I’m _not_ a werewolf, and I _am_ going to die if I don’t get medical attention, do you fucking understand me?”

“Shut up,” Matt says in response.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles says, frustrated. He’s in pain, but he’s had worse, and honestly he can handle this, but Matt’s complete unreasonableness is about to drive him around the bend. Before he can say anything else, the sheriff’s cell phone is ringing.

“Don’t answer that,” Matt says, so Tom doesn’t move. It goes to voice mail. Moments later, the home phone rings. “Don’t answer that, either.”

“Matt, we have to – ”

“Shut up!” Matt shouts again, and the cell phone rings again. “Okay, okay. Answer it, but put it on speaker.”

Sheriff Stilinski nods. He moves slowly, pulling the phone out of his pocket and tapping the screen. “This is Sheriff Stilinski.”

“Tom, it’s Carmichael – we had a 911 call of shots fired at your residence, is everything okay?”

Tom opens his mouth to answer, but Matt’s already talking. “No, it’s not okay,” he says. “If I see a single cop within fifty feet of this house, I’m going to blow your precious sheriff’s head off, is that fucking clear?”

“Who is this?” Carmichael demands, but Matt is already grabbing the phone and disconnecting the call. He’s no sooner done that when Stiles’ phone rings.

“You’d better let me answer,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, “or you’re going to have eight different werewolves up your ass.”

“If I see a single werewolf, I’ll – ”

“You’ll blow my dad’s head off, yeah, I’m getting the idea, Daehler,” Stiles says. The phone stops ringing, and then starts again. “I’m serious.”

“Put it on speaker.”

Milena has to get the phone out of Stiles’ pocket, and he chokes back a bubble of agony when she lifts him up slightly. His breathing is harsh and rapid as she touches the buttons on the phone with shaking fingers. Stiles glances at the phone and sees that it’s Allison. That makes sense. None of the others would bother to call first. “Stiles, what’s going on?” she demands, as soon as the line opens.

“Stiles is indisposed,” Matt says. “I need you to – ”

He’s obviously thinking or at least hoping that Allison won’t recognize his voice, but she immediately snarls, “Daehler, you piece of shit, we’re – ”

“Listen to me, bitch,” Matt says, “I’ve got a gun pointed at Sheriff Stilinski’s heart, and if you say one more word without permission, I’m going to pull the trigger. Is that clear?”

Silence. 

“I said, is that fucking clear?”

Silence.

“Tell her she can talk, you fuckwad,” Stiles rasps out.

Matt’s jaw tightens, but he says, “You can talk if I ask you a direct question, now is that clear?”

“That’s clear,” Allison says. Her voice is cool, crisp and professional and absolutely murderous.

“Now, you’d better keep any of your fucking pack from breaking through the windows. Nobody can get into this house and take me down before I pull the trigger on your precious sheriff and the old folks, so you’d better not even try. Is that clear?”

“Clear,” Allison says.

“Let me talk to her,” Stiles says.

Matt’s eyes narrow, but he nods and says, “You have three sentences. And if you tell her anything that you shouldn’t . . .”

He doesn’t bother to finish the threat, which is probably a good thing. Stiles closes his eyes and concentrates on his breathing for a few moments, getting his priorities in order. “Allison, make sure none of the pack disobeys and tries to get into the house,” he finally says.

“Okay,” she says. It won’t be an easy task and she knows it, but he has faith that she’s up to it.

“Tell Scott to call Deaton and tell him I need him to use the doll.”

“What does that mean?” Matt snarls.

“Deaton is a sorcerer,” Stiles says. “He has . . . it’s like a voodoo doll of me, but it’s for beneficial purposes, not malevolent ones. He’ll be able to use it to keep my condition stable until I can get medical care, since, you know, you fucking _shot me_ and you refuse to believe that I can’t heal.”

Matt clearly still doesn’t believe it, but then he just waves a hand to tell Stiles to get on with things. Stiles thinks about his third sentence for a long minute before he says, “Under no circumstances do I want Agent McCall allowed to do the hostage negotiating.”

“Understood,” Allison says.

Matt grabs the phone, disconnects the call, and then drops it in a pitcher of water. Stiles lets out a little sigh, and then grunts as Milena shifts the napkin. “Matt, please, he needs – ” she tries again.

“Shut up!” Matt waves the gun at her, and she shuts up. “You.” He points at Tomasz. “Go close all the curtains. I’m watching you. Don’t try anything stupid.”

Tomasz nods and gets to his feet. He squeezes Milena’s shoulder as he walks past her and starts closing all the curtains. They can hear sirens now, and a few moments later, the squeal of tires. Matt walks over to the window, dragging the sheriff with him, and peeks out. The cops must be staying fifty feet away as requested, because he doesn’t have a freak out.

Since things seem to be settling down a little, Tom starts to try to talk to him again. His voice is trembling, but he’s handling himself. “Matt, we can work this out, okay? You just tell us what you want. I know you don’t want to hurt anybody.”

“Actually, I want to hurt a lot of people,” Matt says. “You guys weren’t on my list, but you persuaded me. Jesus, after all the work I went to, to make it look accidental. You guys just wouldn’t let it go.”

“That’s why you kept trying to weasel your way into the pack,” Stiles says. “You were trying to keep track of the investigation.”

Sheriff Stilinski’s phone rings again. Matt ignores it. He starts pacing back and forth, but the moment anyone moves, he waves the gun at them. The phone rings and rings and rings. “God, shut that thing up!” Matt snarls.

“Matt, they want to know your demands,” Tom says, trying to stay calm. “You’re holding a cop and three civilians hostage. They know shots have been fired. They’ll send SWAT in here if you don’t answer the phone.”

Matt grabs the phone and shouts, “If this thing rings again in the next five minutes, I’ll kill a hostage. I’m trying to fucking think!” Then he hangs up and slams it back down on the table. It doesn’t ring again.

Stiles tries to look at his watch, but his arms feel weak. Milena presses one hand against his forearm and says, “Hush now, honey, lie still. You’re going to be fine, I’ve seen people survive worse than this, you’d better believe I have.”

He looks up at her and tries to bring her into focus. “You aren’t – surprised,” he says. “You knew.”

“Oh, Przemysław, I knew since about three days after I got here that you and your friends were a pack,” Milena says. “You don’t grow up in Polish Chicago without knowing about the supernatural world – I had a shop for a little while selling herbal remedies and it was quite common for people to come in for cures for hexes or protection spells and I – lie still, I said,” she adds, pressing down harder against the napkin. She looks up at Matt. “It’s soaking through. I need to get a towel or something.”

Matt’s face twists, but he gestures at Tomasz and says, “Get her a towel. I don’t want him croaking because he’s too stubborn to heal himself.”

“God, how did someone as stupid as you manage to commit such skillful murders,” Stiles mutters. He can hear noise outside. The cops are getting organized, setting up a perimeter, settling in for a standoff. The pack is there, too. He can feel them. From some, he can feel anguish, like Derek, Isaac, and Mac. From others, like Boyd and Lydia, a waiting watchfulness. And from some, Erica and Scott, he can feel rage. It swirls inside him. He tries to keep as much of it shut out as possible.

Milena folds up the towel and replaces the napkin with it. The wound is starting to feel uncomfortably warm. He wonders if that’s normal for a gunshot wound, or if it has something to do with the spell Deaton is using.

“Okay,” Matt finally says. “First things first. These murders were accidents. You’re going to delete all the evidence otherwise and mark them all down as accidents. Except Kara, she was a suicide. Got that?”

“Don’t tell me,” Sheriff Stilinski says, somewhat wearily. He keeps casting anxious glances at Stiles. “I can’t do anything from in here.”

“I’m gonna need a way out of here,” Matt says. He shakes his head and says, “Damn it, this wasn’t supposed to go like this – but I heard you assholes talking in the hospital yesterday when I went to take care of Jessica, you were too fucking close.” He paces around for another minute. “Allison’s dad, he’s a hunter, right? He drives that bigass SUV. Is it armored?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, although in reality he has no idea.

“Tinted windows, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rasps again.

“Okay. I’ll need money. How much money have you got?”

“On me?” Stiles asks.

“No, asshole!” Matt screams suddenly, and Milena flinches. “I know your God damned pack is rich, do you think there’s anybody in town who doesn’t know that? Don’t tell me that you don’t have a fat stack of cash somewhere in case you needed to make a getaway. How much is it?”

Stiles breaths out slowly. “Fifty thousand.”

“Is it here?”

“No. The den. Derek’s house.”

“Derek, that asshole, he’s super rich, right? How much money does he have?”

“Jesus, Matt, I don’t know, I’m not his fucking accountant – ”

“Give me an estimate, for Christ’s sake!”

Stiles thinks back to the costs of building the house, the talks about college and moving and apartments, the semester in Neptune, the art gallery, the insurance money. Numbers blur in his head for a moment before he says, “Rough guess, probably around a hundred million. But you can’t ask for that much, Matt, it’s all – all tied up in stocks or bonds and CDs, that kind of shit.”

Matt paced around for a few moments. He seems to be thinking this over. “Okay,” he finally says. “Okay . . .”

The phone rings again. Matt gestures with the gun, and Tom picks it up. “This is Sheriff Stilinski.”

“Hey, Tom,” Carmichael says. “How are you guys doing in there?”

“It’s been a little rough,” Tom says.

“What about that gunshot? Is somebody hurt?”

The sheriff’s voice tightens, but he keeps his cool. “Stiles has been shot. It’s serious but not critical, not yet, anyway.” There’s a ripple of noise through the phone, but Stiles knows the pack isn’t surprised. “I believe our friend here has some demands.”

“Yeah,” Matt interrupts. “First of all, all those accidents that you guys thought were murders, they were accidents. And you’re going to delete any evidence that says otherwise. Then, I want an armored car. Allison Argent’s out there, right? Her dad drives one. I want his. Full tank of gas.”

There are some murmurs in the background. Stiles has his eyes closed so he can focus on his hearing. Somewhere in the back, he hears Victoria say, “I’ll do it.” So even Victoria is there, that’s interesting. Sometimes the Argent family surprises him. And the fact that she’s offering to go fill up the tank means that Chris is in a sniper position already. Stiles wonders about the logistics of maneuvering Matt in front of one of the windows.

“Okay,” Carmichael says. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Money. Five hundred thousand. Hale has it.”

More murmurs. Derek’s voice is thin with barely suppressed anguish and rage. “I’ll need to go to the bank. Give me half an hour.”

“You’ve got twenty minutes,” Matt says.

“Jesus, you’ve seen too many movies,” Stiles says. Matt waves the gun at him, and he shuts up.

“Okay, we’re going to take care of all this,” Carmichael says. “How about you send out a hostage as a show of good faith? Stiles needs medical attention, let him get it.”

“No. I’m not done with Stiles yet. You’ve got twenty minutes.” Matt hangs up.

When Matt starts pacing again, Stiles risks a look at his father. After a few moments, Tom’s gaze shifts to him. Stiles makes a gun with his fingers and mouths, ‘Argent’. Then he looks at the windows. Tom looks over at them, too, and gives a slight nod to indicate that he understands. While Matt’s pacing, he shifts a little closer to them. If he can get near them without Matt noticing, he might be able to get Matt in front of the window. The curtains are drawn, but when the sun sets, he’ll still make a silhouette.

“What do you mean, you’re not done with me, yet?” Stiles asks, trying to keep Matt distracted.

“You think I’m walking out of here vulnerable?” Matt says. “Fuck, no. You’re going to make me one of you.”

“Give you the bite?” Stiles asks. He closes his eyes and tries to gather his patience. “For fuck’s _sake_ , Matt, how much more do I have to bleed before this is clear? I’m _not a fucking werewolf_.”

“SHUT UP!” Matt screams at him. The vein in his forehead throbs dangerously. “I know you’re a God damned werewolf, the only reason you’re not healing is because you knew I would ask for this and you don’t want to give it to me! Everyone knows you’re a God damned werewolf, that you’re in charge of the pack, do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Well, since you ask,” Stiles says, unable to pass such an easy opening. The endorphins are making him a little giddy. He sees his father close his eyes in momentary pain.

“If you had just kept your nose out of what wasn’t your business – ”

“Solving murders is the sheriff’s _job_ , fucknut – ”

“But it’s not yours! You’re only supposed to get involved when there’s supernatural bullshit going on. That’s why I made sure these looked like accidents!” Matt continues to pace around while Sheriff Stilinski edges a little closer to the window. “It’s more than they deserved, especially Lahey, that asshole – if he hadn’t let them drink – ”

“Let who drink?” Stiles asks, and then Matt is going off on a long story about how he had nearly drowned in the Lahey’s pool when he was a child. The pieces fall into place, and everything makes sense, which Stiles thinks just figures, now that he’s lying on the floor with a bullet in his gut.

“And I had to do it now, because I’m leaving for Los Angeles in August, I had to get it done while I was still here! I knew I’d never be able to sleep without feeling like I was drowning until they were dead, so I – I had to – ”

The phone rings. After a pause, Sheriff Stilinski answers it. It’s Carmichael again, but Stiles can hear McCall in the background, protesting. He’s the FBI agent on scene, he should be the one in charge. Stiles grimaces, because he can think of few ways to make this get worse than to put that supercilious asshole on the phone with someone as unstable as Matt. Fortunately, he can also hear Scott’s voice, telling his father to be quiet, so at least he’s on the case.

“We’ve had a little hitch,” Carmichael says, trying to keep his voice even and calm.

“What sort of fucking hitch?” Matt demands.

“Well, we’ve officially closed the cases like you asked, marked them down as accidents, every one,” Carmichael says, his tone reassuring. “But, er . . .”

Sheriff Stilinski closes his eyes. “McCall.”

“Yes, sir. Agent McCall refuses to close his end of the investigation.”

“Does Agent McCall want people in here to get shot?” Matt snaps.

“Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the answer to that question was yes,” Stiles says. “C’mon, Matt, let it go. You’ll get your car and your money, you can go on the run, it doesn’t matter if they close the investigation or not.”

“It matters to me,” Matt says, and punches the button on the phone to end the call. “I don’t want my parents thinking that I’m a murderer! I only did what I had to do!”

“You know what, _fuck you_ ,” Stiles retorts. He tries to sit up, but can’t. “You’re just a God damned psychopath with a good excuse. You killed people because you _wanted_ to kill people, and these were good targets. Do you think I haven’t been through shit easily _twice_ as bad as nearly drowning in a pool? Peter Hale left me in the trunk of his car for two entire days. Sebastian Stone tried to kill my lupa and nearly sliced me in half.”

“And neither of them are around anymore, are they?” Matt retorts.

“No, they aren’t,” Stiles says, “but I never, _never_ would have let a two-year-old girl be collateral damage. If you want to perch up on your moral highground and cry trauma while Tanya’s orphaned and brain damaged in the hospital, you have come to the _wrong_ fucking place.”

Matt grinds his heel down on Stiles’ abdomen. He cries out in agony, and Milena shouts, too, because her fingers are caught between them. Sheriff Stilinski starts forward, but Matt sees him coming and spins, putting the gun right in his face. “Don’t!” he screams. “Get back!”

“Jesus, Matt,” Tom swears.

“Do what he says,” Stiles coughs out. Blood is dripping down his chin. “Matt, listen to me, even if McCall agrees, he won’t do it. That’s the kind of asshole he is. I _know_ him. Just take what you have and go.”

Matt stares at him for a long moment. “Okay,” he says, “if you give me the bite.”

“Matt, for fuck’s sake, how many times do I have to – ”

“And I get Allison,” Matt says.

Stiles coughs again. “Pretty sure that kidnapping her won’t make her like you any better,” he says, and Matt presses the gun into the side of Tom’s neck, hard. “Jesus, okay, okay. Just please let my family go, okay?”

The phone rings again. Matt picks it up and snaps, “Forget McCall. Is my money here?”

“Just arrived,” Carmichael says, “and your car is ready.” He takes a breath. “How would you like to proceed?”

“Send Allison in with the money,” Matt says, and there’s another ripple of conversation. Stiles is thrilled with the idea of Allison coming in with the money. Allison will probably break all of Matt’s fingers if given half a chance. “Leave the car in the driveway, running, and pull everyone back.”

“How about you send out a hostage in exchange for Allison and the money?” Carmichael asks.

Another pause. “Yeah, okay,” Matt says. “I’ll send out the two old farts, how’s that? But Stiles and the sheriff stay with me until I’m clear of here.”

“Stiles needs medical – ”

“Stiles is a lying piece of shit,” Matt says, and hangs up.

A minute passes in tense silence. Then the doorbell rings. “Come in!” Matt shouts. It opens and Allison walks down the hallway and into the kitchen. Stiles watches her gaze flicker around the room, taking in the positions not only of the people, but possible weapons, exits, strategies. She’s holding a metal briefcase. She opens it to display the stacks of money inside.

“Five hundred thousand, as promised,” she says. “And the car is where you want it.”

“Okay.” Matt waves the gun at Tomasz and Milena. “Go.”

“I’m going to say goodbye to my grandson,” Milena says stiffly. She leans over and takes one of Stiles’ hands, pressing it down into the towel so he can hold it there. Matt doesn’t care. He only has eyes for Allison and the money. Milena opens Stiles’ hand and presses something into it. Something small. “You’re going to be fine, Stiles,” she whispers, and kisses his forehead. “We’ll see you soon.”

Tomasz helps her off the floor. Stiles clenches his fist down on what she gave him and feels a sharp pain in his palm. It’s a knife, barely three inches long. He spares a moment to wonder where in God’s name his grandmother got a knife, and if it was something she carried all the time, just in case. Milena kisses the sheriff on the cheek, and then she and Tomasz leave through the front.

“Are you armed?” Matt asks Allison.

“No,” Allison says.

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you,” Matt says, and moves toward her.

She takes a step back. “Don’t touch me.”

“Would you rather strip?” Matt asks, smirking.

“Okay,” Allison says, which clearly surprises him. She pulls her shirt over her head, steps out of her skirt, even peels down her tights. She’s left standing there in her underwear, while Matt stares. It’s an excellent opportunity for Stiles to open his palm and glance down at the blade in his hand. It looks a little like one of Allison’s Chinese ring daggers, or a Japanese kunai, but smaller. The blade itself fits into his palm, and it’s wickedly sharp. The hilt has been tucked up his sleeve so it won’t be seen.

Allison spins and says, “Satisfied, you repulsive sack of crap?”

Matt’s jaw tightens and he says, “Good enough.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Not yet,” Matt says. “Stiles still hasn’t given me the bite.”

Allison’s face is blank with confusion for a moment. Her gaze flickers towards Stiles, as Sheriff Stilinski is saying, “You just don’t _get_ it, do you – ”

Matt shoves the gun back in his face. “What I _get_ is that they’ll be cleaning your brains off the far wall if Stiles doesn’t do what I’ve told him to do! I’m not an idiot! I’m not walking out there vulnerable and getting shot and killed.”

“Dad, it’s okay,” Stiles says. “I’ll do it.”

“Stiles, you can’t – ”

“Clearly, I’m going to have to,” Stiles says. He tries to sit up, but pain flares up and he grits out a cry and sags backwards. For a few moments, he can’t even breathe through it. Or maybe that’s all the blood that’s undoubtedly filing up his lung. He’s not sure.

“Jesus, kid,” Tom says, going to his knees where Milena was a few minutes earlier, grabbing the towel, oblivious to the fact that Matt’s still holding the gun on him. “Easy, easy.” Matt grimaces when Sheriff Stilinski moves away from him, but doesn’t shoot. Instead, he grabs Allison by the elbow and pushes the gun into her ribs.

That’s step one. Stiles doesn’t want Allison to get shot, but he’s far more confident in her abilities to dodge or disarm Matt if it really looks like he’s going to pull the trigger. Now that the gun is no longer trained on his father, he can stop and take a breath. “Help me sit up,” he says, and his father props him up, looking unhappy about it. He coughs wetly, tasting blood. He’s going to have to make this quick.

“Matt, come down here,” Stiles says. “No, I can’t stand, _Jesus_ , just get down here.”

“Fine,” Matt growls, pulling Allison with him. “But if you do anything stupid, I’ll shoot her.”

“Yeah, I’ve figured that out,” Stiles says. Matt is now kneeling in front of him. That’s step two. “But remember that this isn’t like a little nibble. This is a _bite_. It’s going to _hurt_. You’d better not shoot anybody because I gave you what you asked for.”

“I’ll do my best,” Matt says sarcastically.

“Take your shirt off,” Stiles says, “so I can get to your skin. Upper arm is good.”

Matt looks at Allison and smirks. “Take my shirt off.”

Allison doesn’t hesitate, despite the gun in her ribs. She reaches down, grabs the hem of Matt’s shirt, and peels it up and off of him. He switches the gun from one hand to the other while she gets it off him. Stiles uses the brief moment when his view is obscured to slide the knife so the hilt is in his hand instead of the blade. Allison glances down and casually drops Matt’s shirt on top of it. Then she leans back a little, making herself some space to get to Matt’s wrist and disarm him, if she needs to.

“You ready?” Stiles asks.

“Get on with it,” Matt says.

Stiles leans forward and presses his mouth against Matt’s bicep, and he bites down as hard as he possibly can. He doesn’t have fangs, but human teeth can be surprisingly sharp when needed, and he can taste blood. None of which matters, because while Matt is totally focused on that, he swings his other arm up and drives the knife into Matt’s throat. He lets out a cry that’s more of a gurgle and pitches backwards. Stiles twists the knife as he pulls it out, to make the wound larger. Allison’s already moving, knocking the gun aside before Matt can even think about pulling the trigger. But he doesn’t. He lands flat on his back, convulses once, and goes still. If he’s not already dead, it’s only because his body hasn’t realized it yet.

Allison’s already on her feet. She sprints into the front hallway, wrenches the door open, and screams, “Scott! Medics!”

Everything gets very blurry and confusing. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” his father is saying, over and over again.

Then Scott is there, gently taking the towel, and Stiles looks up at him and rasps, “Alpha down,” and Scott laughs a little despite himself, and right around then is when Stiles passes out.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, I've tried my best to get my medical and legal information correct, but feel free to let me know if I screwed anything up. ^_^

 

Stiles drifts in and out of consciousness for a while. He jolts awake when they load him into the ambulance and feels the pinch of a needle being inserted. Someone is wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Scott is talking but he can’t quite make out the words, and all he can feel is pain and Derek’s high-pitched anxiety. There’s a sharp pain in his leg and Scott says, “For Christ’s _sake_ , Derek!” Then things go fuzzy and he passes out again.

He thinks he wakes up briefly a couple times in the hospital – once when someone is saying ‘BP is good, he’s a little tachy’ and Stiles wants to say he’s not tacky, he has impeccable taste – and then once when someone is putting an oxygen mask on his face. He mumbles something about wanting his dad, but nobody hears him. Someone is prodding at his abdomen and he sputters, “Don’t touch me, I’m the . . . I’m the night . . .” He saw a cute little macro of a bat saying that once, and it tickled him pink. He’s still thinking about that when he loses consciousness.

He doesn’t wake up again until people are shouting somewhere very close by, and struggles to surface all the way. The drugs and the exhaustion drag him back down, and he finds it difficult to focus on what’s going on around him. The shouting is a woman, and for a minute he thinks it’s his grandmother, but then realizes that it’s Melissa.

“ – dare you come in here and – Stiles has been out of surgery less than two hours and you think _now_ is the time to – take your accusations and shove them up your – ”

“Melissa, it’s okay – ” Sheriff Stilinski says.

“No, Tom, no, this is the _opposite_ of okay, he can’t just – ”

“This is something that needs to be addressed right away,” another voice says, and of course that’s McCall, being his usual smug self.

“Right away does not include while Stiles is still recovering from surgery – ”

Things get blurry again for a little while. Stiles wants so badly to intervene that he pushes himself towards consciousness, tries to remember how to speak, but all he succeeds in doing is losing track of the conversation until Scott chimes in, with what sounds like more self-control than either of his parents. “That’s enough! Dad, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish right now. If you came back here because you wanted to try to make things right between you and me, you’re failing in the most spectacular sort of way. You have your duties as an FBI agent, okay, fine, go execute those duties. Do what you need to do; nobody here will stop you. And then leave me and mom alone, because we don’t want anything to do with you.”

McCall says something that sounds sarcastic, but Stiles is out again, because he just can’t keep himself scraped together any longer. Scott is handling things, and he doesn’t seem to need help.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out before he wakes up again, and when he does, the room is silent except for the hum of the monitors. Since nothing exciting is going on, Stiles takes his time waking up. He flexes his hands, feels the IV in the crook of his elbow, traces his fingers over the tube in his nose. Lets his hands drift over what feels like miles of bandages on his abdomen. He encounters another tube there and some strange-feeling material, and thinks maybe he should stop exploring.

Then he opens his eyes. There’s weight on his legs, which of course turns out to be Derek, in his fur and his blue vest. His eyes are closed, ears drooping with clear exhaustion, face resting on his paws. Stiles looks around and sees his father in the chair beside his bed. He clearly hasn’t changed clothes, because there’s blood stains on his shirt. Matt’s blood. Stiles feels a little bit of nausea. He takes a deep breath and forces it down.

There’s pain, too, which makes him breathe somewhat shallowly through his mouth. He’s had worse, but it’s bad enough that he fumbles for the call button and presses it. A nurse pokes her head in bare moments later. She’s familiar; Stiles doesn’t know her by name but he’s been in the hospital often enough to know some of the staff. As soon as she comes in, he looks up at her and presses one finger over his mouth in the universal gesture for ‘stay quiet’, then points at his sleeping father. She smiles and nods at him, coming over to check on his vitals.

“How are you feeling?” she murmurs in a low voice.

“A little foggy,” he rasps. “Thirsty. Ouchie.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

Stiles thinks about it and says, “Six, I guess.”

She holds a cup of water to his mouth and helps him take slow sips. He asks for the wi-fi password and she gives him a look that’s a mixture of amusement and incredulity. Then she does something to his IV that makes the pain fade back into glorious tranquility. Then the doctor comes in, lifts up the bandages to check on the injuries. Stiles wants to take a look, but his head won’t really move very much. “Am I gonna make it, doc?” he mumbles, his hands drifting down to explore again.

“Let’s just say that you were lucky,” the doctor replies. “You seem to have come through surgery okay. Don’t fiddle around down there. We leave abdominal wounds open for a few days to keep abdominal pressure low and prevent complications.”

“You mean there’s literally an open hole in my stomach right now?” Stiles asks, even though he really doesn’t want to know.

The doctor pulls the blankets back up. He says something, but Stiles is starting to lose to the painkillers. He drifts, and it’s nice, although he doesn’t quite lose consciousness entirely again. He feels Derek shifting on his feet at one point, and then hears his father clear his throat and get up to go for a drink of water. “Hey, Dad,” Stiles mumbles.

“Hey, you,” Tom says, dropping back into the chair. Derek looks up, his ears pricking. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He sees his father reaching for the call button and says, “Don’t bother. They came in a couple hours ago, while you were sleeping.”

“Oh.” He puts it back down. “You’ve been awake for a while, then?”

“Off and on. What time is it? What _day_ is it?”

His father gives a little smile. “It’s only Monday, calm down. We got here to the hospital around seven thirty last night, they took you straight into surgery, and you’ve slept most of the night through. It’s about nine right now.”

Stiles nods. “The pack . . .?”

“Waiting anxiously in the hallway and driving the nurses insane, I’m sure,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “Now that you’re awake, I’ll let them stop in and say hello. But not for very long. You need your rest.”

Stiles can’t argue with that. He’s exhausted. He knows that the trauma of surgery can really wear out the body. He also knows that he hasn’t been sleeping well for weeks, and it’s catching up with him. He thinks of his previous visits to the hospital, different supernatural illnesses and injuries. It seems very ironic that one little bullet from a completely mundane teenager is what’s probably come closest to killing him.

“Any other questions, kiddo?” Tom asks.

There’s a pause. Stiles knows Matt is dead. He doesn’t need to ask that question. But there’s one more thing he needs to ask. “Would you have taken the shot?”

Tom reaches out and squeezes his son’s hand. “Son, virtually any cop would have taken that shot. He was armed, dangerous, threatening to shoot other people. You did nothing wrong.”

Stiles closes his eyes. “Okay.”

“But you should know,” his father adds, “that you _didn’t_ take the shot.” When Stiles’ eyes open again, he says, “I did. I killed Matt. Not you. Okay?”

“Why?” Stiles asks, frowning. He thinks about what had happened, the way his father had been right behind him. It would have been easy enough for his father to inflict the same wound, and they were surely both covered in Matt’s blood.

“Because I’m a cop, Stiles, and you aren’t. I’m authorized to use lethal force in that sort of situation. Now, would you have gotten into any trouble? It’s doubtful. It was a pretty clear-cut case of self-defense. But . . .”

“But, as usual, Agent Rafael fucking McCall,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his face.

Sheriff Stilinski sighs and nods. “I just figured, if there was going to be trouble, better for it to be mine than yours.” He sees Stiles open his mouth to protest and says, “Not a word. I can’t protect you all the time, Stiles. I’m aware of that. But when I can, I will. End of story.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs, because what can he really say to that? He’s thinking about all the shouting that he heard earlier, about how McCall is still clearly trying to cause trouble. He feels like he should do something about it, but he’s just too damned tired. His hands flex and one of them twines into Derek’s fur. “I want . . . can I see the pack now?”

“Sure. I need to get to work, anyway.” Tom gets to his feet. Stiles waits, his hands smoothing down Derek’s fur while he waits. Derek lets out a soft, sad whine.

“Don’t start with me,” Stiles says. “It probably wouldn’t have been any different if you had been there. If you seriously try to go guilt complex on me because you didn’t want to be subjected to my grandmother’s sauerkraut soup, I will shave you bald.”

Derek’s ears droop, but he eels up a little closer to Stiles so his head is resting on the teenager’s shoulder instead of his hip. Moments later, pack members are coming in, in twos and threes, since the nurse obviously doesn’t want Stiles too excited. There’s cuddling and fist-bumps and kisses from the girls and then Stiles tells them that he’s fine, they should probably get to school or whatever, he’s going to end up sleeping most of the day, and they reluctantly allow themselves to be shooed away with promises that they’ll be back that afternoon.

Stiles closes his eyes and sleeps, feeling the reassuring beat of Derek’s heart against his chest. He wakes up when the nurse brings in some liquid lunch. “Nothing solid for a couple days, sorry,” she says, putting the protein milkshake down on a tray in front of him. They incline the bed a little so he can drink it.

“Just like after my hip surgery,” Milena says, and Stiles blinks over at her. “Well, hello, Przemysław, you didn’t think I would be anywhere else, did you? I was stuck in Chicago the last however-many-times you’ve been in the hospital. Tommy wouldn’t let us stay the night, bless his heart, but he knew we’d be back first thing in the morning. You just missed your grandfather; he went down to buy some balloons or something. How are you feeling?”

“Surprisingly okay, given that there’s a hole in my body made by a bullet,” Stiles says, and Derek whines again. Milena clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Where did you even get that knife, Grandma?”

“Well, goodness me, you didn’t think I was going to wander around a town like Beacon Hills without some way to protect myself, did you? I would’ve used it on that bastard myself if I thought I still had the arm strength, but I don’t think I could’ve gotten close enough.” She squeezes his hand while he sips his milkshake.

“How did you know?” he asks. “About the pack? Did we sniff our food too much?”

Tomasz laughs from the doorway, coming in and sitting down. As promised, he’s holding a ‘get well soon’ balloon, which he ties to the foot of the bed. “Oh, Millie’s a sharp one. It’s all the fault of that damned iPad.”

“What about it?” Stiles asks, trying not to laugh, because laughing hurts even through the painkillers.

“What’s the first thing you do when you finally get a reliable internet connection?” Tomasz asks, and Stiles blinks at him. “You Google yourself! Or so we were told. But of course there was nothing about _us_ , so Millie Googled Tommy.”

“Wow, that must have been . . . interesting,” Stiles says.

“Well, we knew Beacon Hills was an interesting place,” Milena says. “Goodness, Przemysław, everyone knows the name Beacon Hills, even if they’re only small-time practitioners. And we knew all about the shooting, of course, and what happened back when that terrible Argent man tried to kill Tommy. The Argents are famous, the Hales are famous. It was pretty obvious that you had been mixed up in all of it. But we didn’t know for sure that you were actually in the pack until we got here, because of that silly lawsuit.”

“The silly . . . the _service dog_ ,” Stiles groans. “You knew about Harris’ lawsuit.”

“And when we got here and there was no service dog to be seen . . .” Milena laughs. “But we didn’t know you were the alpha until we saw Derek’s paintings and you were always in that little red hoodie, and even then we weren’t one hundred percent sure until we saw your eyes turn red last night. Then we realized you were that famous human alpha who’s made so many waves lately. The legendary boy in red, my grandson!”

“I can’t believe you knew all along,” Stiles says. “What the hell.”

“Old people gossip, honey, it’s what we do,” Milena says, still laughing. Then she sobers a little and says, “But you didn’t seem to want us to know, and Tomasz is always telling me that I push you too hard, so we decided if you weren’t comfortable telling us, we just wouldn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t want to tell you because I figured you’d have heart attacks if you found out werewolves are real!” Stiles says.

Milena narrows her eyes and says, “I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that. Thinking your own grandparents are so fragile!”

“No respect from the young’uns,” Tomasz says, shaking his head sadly.

Stiles laughs, then hisses in pain and presses one hand against his abdomen. Milena reaches out, takes the hand, and squeezes it. “You’re all right, honey,” she says quietly. Stiles nods and concentrates on his breathing for a few minutes.

“What’s going on with Agent McCall and my dad?” he finally says.

Milena throws her hands in the air and says, “That man! May he step on a Lego. He’s trying to say that the use of lethal force wasn’t necessary and that the sheriff should have continued to cooperate, let the hostage negotiator handle it, et cetera. Well, he got into it with Melissa, bless her soul, because he was trying to say that your injury wasn’t that serious since you survived almost an hour without any medical intervention. She really let him have it.”

“But it won’t stop there,” Stiles says. “I need to – ”

“You need to lie still, rest, and recover,” Milena says. “Your father is handling himself. You don’t need to do everything yourself.”

“You sound like my therapist,” Stiles says.

“Then she’s clearly a very smart woman,” Tomasz chips in. “Don’t worry, Stiles. Your father said he had an idea or two on how to handle it, and he can take care of himself.”

Stiles sighs and leans back against the bed. “I don’t like him being in trouble for something I did. And . . . maybe McCall is right. Maybe I didn’t have to . . . go that far. I never thought about wounding Matt or stopping Matt. I thought about killing him.”

“What on earth do you think I thought you were going to do with that knife?” Milena asks, sounding exasperated. “He had a gun, for crying out loud, if you hadn’t done him in he could have gotten a shot off, he could have hurt or killed your father or your friend. Nobody thinks you did the wrong thing, not even McCall thinks that, he’s just trying to stir up trouble.”

“It’s just that . . .” Stiles swallows and forces himself to look at his grandmother. “Matt’s not the first person I’ve killed. There have been . . . he’s the third person. And more than that, I mean, people I haven’t killed myself but I’ve maneuvered them into it . . . how many people do you have to kill before you become a serial killer?”

“Goodness gracious, Przemysław, what’s it like to live in such a melodramatic world?” Milena asks incredulously. “Your father has killed a person or two while being a police officer, and my brother, you know, he fought in World War Two and he probably killed dozens. There’s a big difference between being a serial killer and being a soldier.”

“That’s . . . a unique perspective, Grandma,” Stiles said.

“Piffle. It’s the perspective everyone _except_ you seems to have. I’ve looked in the face of true evil, my boy, and trust me, on a grand scale, you don’t even register.”

Stiles thinks about that. The knot in his stomach starts to ease a little. He leans more heavily against the pillows. “Thanks, Grandma. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Let’s talk about something else, hm?” Tomasz suggests. “It can’t all have been darkness and danger. Tell us some fun stories about you and your pack.”

Stiles can’t help but smile at that, so he does. He tells them about taking Lydia and Erica shopping, about Danny and Mac teaching him about computers, about his father gradually getting used to the general level of naked teenagers wandering around. He tells them about the troll they chased away and the phoenix he saw being reborn. Milena and Tomasz tell him about the supernatural side of Chicago, about the different creatures that live in the old subway tunnels and the magic of Lake Michigan.

The pack comes in after school and ignores all the nurses’ protests about how they can’t all be there at once and Stiles needs rest. Melissa apparently intervenes at some point and the nurses agree that they can stay as long as they’re quiet. So they sit around with their homework and then they leave for their respective houses so they can have dinner. Nobody is mean enough to eat in front of Stiles.

A day or two passes like that. Stiles isn’t allowed to ask questions about what’s happening anywhere else. The pack and his family are in and out. Other people come to check on him, kids from school, his father’s coworkers, Dr. Deaton, Chris. And Derek is always there, almost always in his fur. Stiles discovers on the second day that one of his wounds is a bite mark on his ankle. “Was that you?” he asks, and Derek looks up at him with sad eyes. “Uh, that doesn’t work, you know. I’m pretty sure I can’t turn myself.”

He finds out from Scott that Derek had freaked out and bit him in the ambulance, but fortunately nobody had noticed because they were busy with the gunshot wound. Scott bandaged it up and told the doctors that he had gotten it from a neighborhood dog earlier that day. As usual, there were a lot of suspicious glances but no active questions.

“So it didn’t work?” Scott asks. “I mean, we really weren’t sure. ‘Cause he _can_ turn people, with your permission, but you weren’t really, uh, around to give that permission . . .”

“Pretty sure I’m not turning furry,” Stiles says. “But hey, it was worth a try,” he adds, scratching Derek behind the ears. “If certain parties think I’m angry or are feeling guilty about this, those parties should probably get the fuck over it.”

Derek growls and play bites his hand.

He sleeps a lot, because there isn’t a lot to do in the hospital, and to be fair, he has a lot of healing to do. But there are always people in and out. On his third day at the hospital, he looks up from his book when he sees motion out of the corner of his eye. He’s expecting one of the nurses, since it’s mid-morning and that’s the time of day that he typically doesn’t have any visitors. The pack is in school, and his father will be hard at work at this hour. Instead, Gwen walks into the room, dressed in a casual blouse and pants. “Hey, what are you doing here?” Stiles asks, then realizes how that sounds and amends, “and I mean that in a very welcoming sort of way.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow. “Being shot entitles you to at least one house call,” she says, and with that, she moves into the room and settles in the chair next to his bed. She’s brought her own coffee, and takes a sip.

“Okay, yes, but, I’m really coping,” Stiles says. “Look at me coping.”

“Like a champ. Exactly what happened?”

Stiles grimaces and says, “Uh, maybe you’d better tell me where we’re starting from. Did my dad call you? Or did you just read in the paper that I’d been shot and decide you’d come visit me?”

“Your father contacted me and gave me the very bare basics,” Gwen says. “That someone had broken into your house, took you all hostage, and that you had been shot and were now in the hospital.” She spreads her hands as if to illustrate that she had given all the information she had. “After that, I avoided reading anything from the paper or other news outlets about the incident. I don’t like to make guesses or assumptions when it comes to my clients. And given that this is you, I couldn’t be sure if the public story was the truth.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it _so_ wasn’t,” Stiles agrees, “or at least the ending wasn’t. Actually most of it was pretty accurate. That serial killer Dad had been trying to track down, who made it look like accidents? Well, we got close enough that he decided to make a visit to our house and demand that . . . you know, I don’t actually know what he wanted in the end. I think he was just crazy.”

“So in the end it had nothing to do with the pack at all?”

“Nope,” Stiles says. “Kinda funny, huh? I’ve survived werewolves and warlocks, and Matt fucking Daehler came closer to killing me with a 9 mm than any of that bullshit.”

“It is a little. But maybe not so strange in the end. You know to be on guard against these other things because they’re part of your life. An unbalanced person taking you hostage in your own home in a completely mundane fashion is pretty foreign to you.”

“Well, that’s certainly true.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Though I guess in the end it was sort of related? Because Matt had figured out about werewolves, and he thought I _was_ a werewolf and that I could survive being shot. He kept shouting at me to get up, which was really freakin’ irritating.”

“How did he figure it out?”

Stiles shrugs. “To be honest, I think about half the kids at Beacon Hills High have figured it out, at least bits and pieces. He also apparently had a habit of stalking people and a good telephoto lens, so . . .”

“So he was creepy even before the killing spree and your pack is an open secret?”

“Yeah, basically. But it sort of worked out. He wanted me to give him the bite, so he wouldn’t be as vulnerable . . . and when he refused to listen when I explained that I couldn’t, at least that got him close enough for me to put a knife in his throat.” Stiles rubbed a hand over the back of his head and says, “That, uh, that’s the part that wasn’t in the papers.”

“I didn’t read the papers, remember?” Gwen says, but there’s no real reprimand in her voice. She studies him for a moment before saying, “How are you handling that? This is the first plain human enemy you’ve had to kill.”

“I guess I’m handling it okay,” Stiles says. “I think maybe it would have been different if he hadn’t opened by threatening to kill my dad, but . . . I didn’t have a lot of options and I wasn’t going to let him hurt my family.”

Gwen nods. “I think that’s a healthy way to view it.”

“I asked my dad, if he would have taken the shot, and he said any cop would have. So . . . I can live with that. I don’t think it has anything to do with being human or not human. It’s just . . . the capacity to cause damage. And a 9 mm can cause a lot of damage,” he adds, gesturing vaguely at the bandages somewhere under the blankets.

“And his obvious willingness to do so,” Gwen says. She’s quiet for a minute. “How did your grandparents handle everything?”

“Oh my God!” Stiles can’t help but flail. “They knew about werewolves this _entire time_!”

Gwen’s coffee cup stops halfway to her mouth. “What.”

“I know! Apparently they’ve known about supernatural stuff all their lives or possibly longer, my grandmother used to work in a shop that sold hex cures and that kind of shit – but remember how I complained about how my grandmother was incapable of minding her own business? _This_ is when she chose to decide ‘if he doesn’t want to talk about it, I just won’t say anything’.”

“Well, on the upside, you don’t have to worry anymore.”

“So true. And if my grandmother hadn’t known about the supernatural, we’d probably be having a very different conversation right now, or none at all, since she’s the one who smuggled me a knife while I was lying on the floor bleeding from a hole in my gut.”

“Now I think I know how you come by your steel backbone.”

“I know, right? You should have seen her rip Agent Asshole a new one. Is there any argument you can make against ‘I survived the Holocaust, sonny boy’?”

Gwen can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “No, I think that’s an argument winner.”

“That guy, though.” Stiles shakes his head. “Give me a werewolf or a warlock any day.”

“Is that because they’re easier to reason with or because you’re allowed to hit them when they get out of hand?”

“I don’t know, maybe a little of both?” Stiles gives a little shrug. “McCall just . . . it’s like the whole thing with Harris. When someone plays by the real-world rules and I can’t just slap them down and tell them to stop messing with me. Drives me fuckin’ nuts.”

“You do have a few control issues, which is understandable,” Gwen says. “But you do know how to play by real-world rules and win. You should remember that.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, “but so far McCall has been kicking my ass.” He fiddles with his straw and says, “Officially, my dad killed Matt. And officially, McCall is putting up a fuss, saying lethal force wasn’t warranted. It’s complete bullshit and everyone knows it, but he _still_ holds enough power to make trouble, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Well, maybe the question you should be asking is if you _need_ to do anything about it. It sounds like it’ll blow over pretty quickly as soon as he gets someone to listen long enough to actually look into it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stiles says. “I mean, intellectually, I know you’re right. But emotionally, I’m nowhere near okay with just letting it go.”

“Your problem may not be about not handling things as an alpha, or in a mundane fashion,” Gwen points out. “I think you’d be able to swallow this better if it were someone besides McCall.”

“God, that’s so true,” Stiles says, with a sigh. “Put me in a room with him and suddenly I’m nine years old again.”

“Is there any way you can avoid him until the rest of this blows over and he leaves town?” Gwen asks.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says. “I just have to get shot and wind up stuck in a hospital bed. I think that could be arranged pretty easily . . . oh wait.”

Gwen just gives him a look.

“You did ask,” Stiles points out.

“True enough. Although I have no way of knowing how long you’re going to be in here or how long McCall will be in town.”

Stiles shrugs. “I do heal quicker than a regular human. One of the perks. But uh, apparently the situation wasn’t pretty and they had to staple a bunch of my organs back together, so I’ll be here at least a week. As for McCall, I have no idea how long he’ll be here. The case is closed, so he doesn’t have to stay, but at the same time it’s a free country and we don’t have the leverage to force him to leave.”

“I suppose asking him to leave would be futile.”

“Yeah, most likely, but Melissa’s been talking about spiking his coffee with laxatives, so he may suddenly realize he’s needed elsewhere.”

Gwen can’t help but laugh. “We can hope.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've all enjoyed the ninth installment of TSOIP. More to come after I've gotten some other stuff ironed out. ^_^

 

A couple days pass in the hospital and the nurses start allowing Stiles out of bed for short, shuffling trips, first to the bathroom, then up and down the hallway. He meets his physical therapist and there are meetings with her and his father about the limited activities he’ll be doing. The doctors discuss the cocktail of medication he’s going to be on for a little while.

His pack brings his school work with a message from the principal that of course he’ll be allowed extra time to make it up, given the situation. He does as much as he can, because hell if he’s not going to graduate because of Matt fucking Daehler. As a result, some of it is rather slipshod, but he doubts any of the teachers will really complain.

For several days, people exchange meaningful looks and drop hints about what might happen to Agent McCall. Stiles is on the verge of going completely insane, but nobody will tell him anything. “It might not pan out,” is all his father says, and when Stiles tries to throw a fit, the pack starts telling him about every single time he’s said that to one of them. He finally gives in. After all, he doesn’t need to take care of _everything_ himself – and if his father has an idea about how to handle McCall, he’ll wait and see what happens.

In the end, his answers come from a very unexpected source. It’s his second to last day in the hospital, and fairly late in the evening. Most of the pack has departed, although Derek is still there, of course. His grandparents have left to get dinner, and his father is still at work, so he’s basically by himself. Then Jackson walks in, with Wilma behind him. It amuses Stiles somewhat that Jackson has never bothered to get a vest for Wilma or even have her on a leash most of the time, and nobody ever gives _him_ any trouble about her accompanying him places. The benefits of having an actual familiar, he supposes.

In Jackson’s arms is a dark-haired toddler with bright blue eyes. Jackson thumps down into the chair next to Stiles’ bed and grunts, “Thought you might like a visit. Tanya, Stiles. Stiles, Tanya.”

“Hey there, sweetie,” Stiles says, trying to sit up and failing.

Tanya gives him a solemn eyeballing and then buries her face in Jackson’s shirt.

“She’s kinda shy,” Jackson mutters. “C’mon, say hi,” he says, and Tanya shakes her head. Wilma nudges the little girl’s knee, and Tanya reaches down and grabs one of the dog’s ears for security.

“My God,” Stiles says, trying not to cackle or stare. “You’re actually a gigantic softy. I never thought – ”

“Shut up, Stilinski,” Jackson says. “You want to hear what happened with Scott’s asshole of a dad or not?”

“Oh my God! You’re my hero. The wind beneath my – ”

“Dude,” Jackson says, “No.” He shakes his head and huffs out a breath. “McCall tried to get an internal investigation launched. He was basically told to shove it. So, he went to Matt’s parents.”

“You’re kidding,” Stiles says.

“Nope. He went and told them that, as an FBI agent, he felt that Sheriff Stilinski had gone too far, blah, blah, blah. They’re all fucked up about everything, since their kid turned out to be a serial killer and now he’s dead, so they started making noise. That was a few days ago now. So then Matt’s dad came to talk to my dad. You know, about pressing charges or whatever. I think he figured the DA would know who he needed to talk to. But my dad, you know, he knows _your_ dad, and I guess he feels like he kinda owes him because of all the stuff that happened with me – back then – so he called your dad to see if he knew what was going on, and your dad gave him the scoop. All the while, McCall is just standing there being the smug shit he is because he didn’t bother to do a fucking ounce of research, right? And he has no idea that my dad and your dad are pals.

“Not that I think it would matter, really, since McCall was full of shit about the whole thing, but it gave my dad access to some inside info that I don’t think McCall realized he would have. So my dad basically said ‘look, dude, I’m really sorry for your loss and all that, but no jury on earth is going to convict a police officer for using lethal force against the guy who had just _shot_ his son, and was in fact still holding the gun on him, and whoever told you it was inappropriate was full of shit’. So Daehler’s all upset because why would McCall say that if it wasn’t true, and my dad told him that McCall was just on a personal vendetta against the sheriff because his ex-wife liked him and shit.

“Daehler hits the fucking _roof_ , McCall’s standing there trying to deny it, and Daehler fucking punches him in the face, which was awesome by the way. Your dad shows up, tries to get everyone calmed down, starts talking to my dad about McCall’s ‘conduct’ during the investigation, something about how he preferred to harass the Stilinski family and make this about Derek Hale rather than doing any actual crime-solving. He’s got all this on tape, right? And it’s inadmissible because he didn’t know he was being recorded, but it sure took the wind out of his sails. So Daehler’s completely freaking out because if someone had figured out Matt was responsible earlier, well, maybe things would’ve gone different. It wouldn’t have changed the fact that his kid was a murderer, but his kid might not be _dead_. And _my_ dad’s all pissed off because Tanya here,” he gives the girl a little squeeze, “might not have made it if you and your dad hadn’t figured out her family was going to be targeted, and basically told McCall he was a waste of oxygen. Then he called McCall’s superiors in the FBI and they yanked him out of Beacon Hills so fast, his fucking pants caught fire. Word is, there’s an official investigation against _him_ now, because they sent him here to do a job but he decided he would rather dick around and try to be a jerk to his ex-wife.”

“Wow,” Stiles breathes out. “That’s the best story I’ve ever heard.”

Jackson gives a reluctant smile. “Yeah, it was okay. Some other FBI guy was out here earlier today, and I think he talked to Scott and Scott’s mom, and . . . things don’t look good for McCall’s career, let’s put it that way. They were looking for Derek – something about an inappropriate search warrant – but he isn’t answering his phone. I think the sheriff told them that he was probably here with you, so you might want to think about putting some clothes on or something.”

Derek lifts his head at this and gives a huff. ‘Later’, the huff seems to say.

“Anyway,” Jackson says, standing up, “I just figured I’d come tell you what was up.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He tries to peer in to see Tanya and says, “See you later, Tanya.”

She peeks out at him. “Did you hurt your head like I did?” she asks quietly.

Stiles smiles at her. “No, I hurt my belly, but I think we’re both going to be fine, right, cutie?”

Tanya gives him a solemn nod. Jackson turns and leaves without another word, with Wilma trotting along on his heels. As soon as they’re gone, Derek stretches and hops off the bed before shifting back to his human form. He picks up the backpack of clothing that the pack had brought him earlier, and starts to get dressed.

“You know, it’s funny,” Stiles muses, “I got so used to dealing with things as the alpha that I forgot I could still ruin McCall through good old-fashioned skullduggery.”

Derek’s lips quirk into a slight smile. “Apparently your father didn’t.”

“Yep. I’m a horrible influence on him, which, God, that is so incredibly awesome.”

“I’m just glad someone got to punch that douche.”

“Yeah. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Daehler, though.”

Derek gives him a look as he pulls his shirt over his head. “That’s not guilt I hear, right?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Maybe a little . . . sorrow. But not guilt.”

“Good.” Derek stoops and puts his shoes on, then he realizes that nobody else is there. “You’ll be okay for a while by yourself?”

“Yeah, Grandma and Grandpa should be back soon anyway. You should go eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine and sleep somewhere that isn’t my feet. I’m getting discharged tomorrow anyway, they said, so I can survive a night alone.”

Derek glowers a little, but then nods. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The next two weeks are a blur. There’s physical therapy, questions from the police, make-up work from school. Everyone wants to throw a welcome home party but he forbids it until he’s steady on his feet again. In the end, they decide to just throw a graduation party, but they have it the week before graduation itself, in the gap between finals and the official end of the year.

As usual, it’s quite a party. It’s so big that they decide to throw it at the den. All the pack’s families are invited, including Stiles’ grandparents, along with the Whittemores and Dr. Deaton. Stiles made it a pot luck, since he won’t have the ability to make as much food as he needs to. He asks his grandmother nicely not to make too much cabbage. She pokes fun at Derek until his cheeks flush bright pink. Stiles makes some cookies, but he still can’t stay on his feet too long without getting tired.

There are plenty of kids there – Boyd, Erica, and Mac all have younger siblings, and the Whittemores bring Tanya, so there are children underfoot everywhere. She’s doing well, Mike Whittemore reports. She’s going to need a lot of physical therapy because she’s having some issues with motor skills, probably due to the brain damage, but cognitively she seems at a reasonable level for her age. She’s adjusting well to life with the Whittemores and has already decided that Wilma is her best friend.

Whittemore also has news on McCall, which he shares with a great amount of schadenfreude from all parties. He’s facing an internal investigation in the FBI and has been temporarily suspended. The fact that Sheriff Stilinski had actually identified Matt as a suspect and was just in the process of gathering enough evidence to get a warrant makes McCall look even worse by comparison. Derek has decided to file an official complaint about the way McCall behaved during the search of his residence. Everyone is delighting in the misery that they’ve caused for him.

Thanks to everything that’s been going on, Stiles has accrued a number of gold stars, and he decides that now would be a good time to cash them in. “So here’s what’s going to happen next Saturday,” he says, while everyone listens intently. “Dad, you’re not working. Any criminal activities will be handled immediately and with extreme prejudice by people who are not you. I’ve made reservations at Grisanti’s for you and Ms. McCall. You are going on a date.”

Milena cackles and claps her hands. Tom turns pink and tries to protest, but gets shut down immediately when Melissa says, “Yes, that seems like an excellent idea.”

“We can take pictures of you two and send them to Agent McCall,” Derek suggests, and Stiles smirks.

“I, uh, you really don’t have to . . .” Tom tries.

“Shut up, Tom,” Melissa says, and kisses him. The picture-taking commences immediately.

Some time later, they’re all standing around the yard eating, and Stiles taps his glass to get a few moments of quiet. “Okay, so,” he says, “the good news is that I’ve met with the administration and they’re going to give me an extra week to catch up on all my work because they don’t want to have to keep me from graduating because I got shot. The bad news is that, sadly, I got knocked out of the salutatorian spot because of it. So, let’s hear it for Beacon Hills’ salutatorian, Vernon Boyd!”

There’s a general cheer, Boyd’s younger siblings give him a bunch of hugs, and Boyd looks at Stiles as if to say, ‘why are you torturing me?’

“They’d probably still let me make my speech if I wanted to,” Stiles continues, “but I don’t know that I really had anything exciting to say besides ‘I’m really glad that none of you got eaten by monsters’ and that probably wouldn’t go over very well.”

“In this town?” Derek remarks dryly, while Jackson’s parents look at each other and mouth ‘monsters?’ because they have no idea what Stiles is talking about.

“It’s so weird to think that high school is nearly over,” Scott says thoughtfully. “I mean, leaving Beacon Hills is going to be the strangest thing ever.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He’s been worried about that for a while. Beacon Hills is his territory, and instinct says not to leave it. But he looks around the table at his father, at Chris Argent, Dr. Deaton, even Mike Whittemore, and he knows that he’ll be leaving it in good hands. They’ll take care of it while he’s gone. He doesn’t need to do _everything_ himself.

All things considered, the future is pretty bright. He’s looking forward to it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Thicker Than Water [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10442589) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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